THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 


LITERARY    LAPSES 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


BEHIND  THE  BEYOND 
NONSENSE  NOVELS 
LITERARY  LAPSES 
SUNSHINE  SKETCHES 

MOONBEAMS  FROM  THE 
LARGER  LUNACY 

ESSAYS  AND  LITERARY 
STUDIES 

FURTHER  FOOLISHNESS 


LITER  ART  LAPSES 

ET  STEPHEN  LE ACOCK 


NEW  YORK:   JOHN  LANE   COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY HEAD 

MCMXX 


Presa  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Co. 
New  York 


College 
Library 

.. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

MY  FINANCIAL  CAREER 9 

LORD  OXHEAD'S  SECRET 15 

BOARDING-HOUSE  GEOMETRY 26 

THE  AWFUL  FATE  OF  MELPOMENUS  JONES      .  28 

A  CHRISTMAS  LETTER 33 

How  TO  MAKE  A  MILLION  DOLLARS     ...  35 

How  TO  LIVE  TO  BE  200 42 

How  TO  AVOID  GETTING  MARRIED       ...  48 

How  TO  BE  A  DOCTOR 54 

THE  NEW  FOOD 62 

A  NEW  PATHOLOGY 65 

THE  POET  ANSWERED 72 

THE  FORCE  OF  STATISTICS 74 

MEN  WHO  HAVE  SHAVED  ME 77 

GETTING  THE  THREAD  OF  IT 85 

TELLING  His  FAULTS 92 

WINTER  PASTIMES 95 

NUMBER  FIFTY-SIX 102 

ARISTOCRATIC  EDUCATION 113 

THE  CONJURER'S  REVENGE 117 

HINTS  TO  TRAVELLERS     .......  122 

5 


Contents 

Page 

A  MANUAL  OF  EDUCATION .127 

HOODOO  McFiGGm's  CHRISTMAS     ....  132 

THE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  SMITH 138 

ON  COLLECTING  THINGS 145 

SOCIETY  CHIT-CHAT 150 

INSURANCE  UP  TO  DATE 156 

BORROWING  A  MATCH 159 

A  LESSON  IN  FICTION 162 

HELPING  THE  ARMENIANS 169 

A  STUDY  IN  STILL  LIFE. — THE  COUNTRY  HOTEL  172 

AN  EXPERIMENT  WITH  POLICEMAN  HOGAN      .  175 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  POET 185 

SELF-MADE  MEN 194 

A  MODEL  DIALOGUE  : 200 

BACK  TO  THE  BUSH 203 

REFLECTIONS  ON  RIDING 212 

SALOONIO 216 

HALF-HOURS  WITH  THE  POETS — 

I.    MR.  WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LITTLE 

COTTAGE  GIRL 222 

II.    How    TENNYSON   KILLED    THE    MAY 

QUEEN 227 

III.   OLD  MR.  LONGFELLOW  ON  BOARD  THE 

"HESPERUS" 231 

A,  B,  AND  C 237 


LITERARY    LAPSES 


LITERARY     LAPSES 

My  Financial  Career 

WHEN  I  go  into  a  bank  I  get  rat- 
tled. The  clerks  rattle  me;  the 
wickets  rattle  me;  the  sight  of 
the  money  rattles  me;  every- 
thing rattles  me. 

The  moment  I  cross  the  threshold  of  a  bank 
and  attempt  to  transact  business  there,  I  be- 
come an  irresponsible  idiot. 

I  knew  this  beforehand,  but  my  salary  had 
been  raised  to  fifty  dollars  a  month  and  I  felt 
that  the  bank  was  the  only  place  for  it. 

So  I  shambled  in  and  looked  timidly  round 
at  the  clerks.  I  had  an  idea  that  a  person 
about  to  open  an  account  must  needs  consult 
the  manager. 

I  went  up  to  a  wicket  marked  "Account- 
ant." The  accountant  was  a  tall,  cool  devil. 
The  very  sight  of  him  rattled  me.  My  voice 
was  sepulchral. 

"Can.    I   see   the    manager?"    I    said,    and 

9 


Literary  Lapses 


added  solemnly,  "alone."  I  don't  know  why 
I  said  "alone." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  accountant,  and 
fetched  him. 

The  manager  was  a  grave,  calm  man.  I 
held  my  fifty-six  dollars  clutched  in  a  crumpled 
ball  in  my  pocket. 

"Are  you  the  manager?"  I  said.  God 
knows  I  didn't  doubt  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Can  I  see  you,"  I  asked,  "alone?"  I 
didn't  want  to  say  "alone"  again,  but  without 
it  the  thing  seemed  self-evident. 

The  manager  looked  at  me  in  some  alarm. 
He  felt  that  I  had  an  awful  secret  to  reveal. 

"Come  in  here,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way 
to  a  private  room.  He  turned  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

"We  are  safe  from  interruption  here,"  he 
said;  "sit  down." 

We  both  sat  down  and  looked  at  each  other. 
I  found  no  voice  to  speak. 

"You  are  one  of  Pinkerton's  men,  I  pre- 
sume," he  said. 

He  had  gathered  from  my  mysterious  man- 
ner that  I  was  a  detective.  I  knew  what  he 
was  thinking,  and  it  made  me  worse. 

10 


My  Financial  Career 


"No,  not  from  Pinkerton's,"  I  said,  seeming 
to  imply  that  I  came  from  a  rival  agency. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  I  went  on,  as  if  I  had 
been  prompted  to  lie  about  it,  "I  am  not  a  de- 
tective at  all.  I  have  come  to  open  an  ac- 
count. I  intend  to  keep  all  my  money  in  this 
bank." 

The  manager  looked  relieved  but  still  seri- 
ous; he  concluded  now  that  I  was  a  son  of 
Baron  Rothschild  or  a  young  Gould. 

"A  large  account,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"Fairly  large,"  I  whispered.  "I  propose  to 
deposit  fifty-six  dollars  now  and  fifty  dollars 
a  month  regularly." 

The  manager  got  up  and  opened  the  door. 
He  called  to  the  accountant. 

"Mr.  Montgomery,"  he  said  unkindly  loud, 
"this  gentleman  is  opening  an  account,  he  will 
deposit  fifty-six  dollars.  Good  morning." 

I  rose. 

A  big  iron  door  stood  open  at  the  side  of 
the  room. 

"Good  morning,"  I  said,  and  stepped  into 
the  safe. 

"Come  out,"  said  the  manager  coldly,  and 
showed  me  the  other  way. 

I  went  up  to  the  accountant's  wicket  and 
ii 


Literary  Lapses 


poked  the  ball  of  money  at  him  with  a  quick 
convulsive  movement  as  if  I  were  doing  a  con- 
juring trick. 

My  face  was  ghastly  pale. 

"Here,"  I  said,  "deposit  it."  The  tone  of 
the  words  seemed  to  mean,  "Let  us  do  this 
painful  thing  while  the  fit  is  on  us." 

He  took  the  money  and  gave  it  to  another 
clerk. 

He  made  me  write  the  sum  on  a  slip  and 
sign  my  name  in  a  book.  I  no  longer  knew 
what  I  was  doing.  The  bank  swam  before 
my  eyes. 

"Is  it  deposited?"  I  asked  in  a  hollow,  vi- 
brating voice. 

"It  is,"  said  the  accountant. 

"Then  I  want  to  draw  a  cheque." 

My  idea  was  to  draw  out  six  dollars  of  it 
for  present  use.  Someone  gave  me  a  cheque- 
book through  a  wicket  and  someone  else  be- 
gan telling  me  how  to  write  it  out.  The  peo- 
ple in  the  bank  had  the  impression  that  I  was 
an  invalid  millionaire.  I  wrote  something  on 
the  cheque  and  thrust  it  in  at  the  clerk.  He 
looked  at  .it. 

"What!  are  you  drawing  it  all  out  again?" 
he  asked  in  surprise.  Then  I  realised  that  I 

12 


My  Financial  Career 


had  written  fifty-six  instead  of  six.  I  was  too 
far  gone  to  reason  now.  I  had  a  feeling  that 
it  was  impossible  to  explain  the  thing.  All  the 
clerks  had  stopped  writing  to  look  at  me. 

Reckless  with  misery,  I  made  a  plunge. 

"Yes,  the  whole  thing." 

"You  withdraw  your  money  from  the 
bank?" 

"Every  cent  of  it." 

"Are  you  not  going  to  deposit  any  more?" 
said  the  clerk,  astonished. 

"Never." 

An  idiot  hope  struck  me  that  they  might 
think  something  had  insulted  me  while  I  was 
writing  the  cheque  and  that  I  had  changed  my 
mind.  I  made  a  wretched  attempt  to  look  like 
a  man  with  a  fearfully  quick  temper. 

The  clerk  prepared  to  pay  the  money. 

"How  will  you  have  it?"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"How  will  you  have  it?" 

"Oh" — I  caught  his  meaning  and  answered 
without  even  trying  to  think — "in  fifties." 

He  gave  me  a  fifty-dollar  bill. 

"And  the  six?"  he  asked  dryly. 

"In  sixes,"  I  said. 

He  gave  it  me  and  I  rushed  out. 
13 


Literary  Lapses 


As  the  big  door  swung  behind  me  I  caught 
the  echo  of  a  roar  of  laughter  that  went  up  to 
the  ceiling  of  the  bank.  Since  then  I  bank  no 
more.  I  keep  my  money  in  cash  in  my  trou- 
sers pocket  and  my  savings  in  silver  dollars  in 
a  sock. 


14 


Lord  Oxhead's  Secret 


A  ROMANCE  IN  ONE  CHAPTER 

IT  was  finished.     Ruin  had  come.     Lord 
Oxhead  sat  gazing  fixedly  at  the  library 
fire.     Without,    the    wind    soughed    (or 
sogged)    around  the  turrets  of  Oxhead 
Towers,  the  seat  of  the  Oxhead  family.     But 
the  old  earl  heeded  not  the  sogging  of  the  wind 
around  his  seat.     He  was  too  absorbed. 

Before  him  lay  a  pile  of  blue  papers  with 
printed  headings.  From  time  to  time  he 
turned  them  over  in  his  hands  and  replaced 
them  on  the  table  with  a  groan.  To  the  earl 
they  meant  ruin — absolute,  irretrievable  ruin, 
and  with  it  the  loss  of  his  stately  home  that 
had  been  the  pride  of  the  Oxheads  for  genera- 
tions. More  than  that — the  world  would  now 
know  the  awful  secret  of  his  life. 

The  earl  bowed  his  head  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  sorrow,  for  he  came  of  a  proud  stock. 
About  him  hung  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors. 
Here  o«  the  right  an  Oxhead  who  had  broken 
his  lance  at  Crecy,  or  immediately  before  it. 

15 


Literary  Lapses 


There  McWhinnie  Oxhead  who  had  ridden 
madly  from  the  stricken  field  of  Flodden  to 
bring  to  the  affrighted  burghers  of  Edinburgh 
all  the  tidings  that  he  had  been  able  to' gather 
in  passing  the  battlefield.  Next  him  hung  the 
dark  half  Spanish  face  of  Sir  Amyas  Oxhead 
of  Elizabethan  days  whose  pinnace  was  the 
first  to  dash  to  Plymouth  with  the  news  that 
the  English  fleet,  as  nearly  as  could  be 
judged  from  a  reasonable  distance,  seemed 
about  to  grapple  with  the  Spanish  Armada. 
Pelow  this,  the  two  Cavalier  brothers,  Giles 
and  Everard  Oxhead,  who  had  sat  in  the  oak 
with  Charles  II.  Then  to  the  right  again  the 
portrait  of  Sir  Ponsonby  Oxhead  who  had 
fought  with  Wellington  in  Spain,  and  been  dis- 
missed for  it. 

Immediately  before  the  earl  as  he  sat  was 
the  family  escutcheon  emblazoned  above  the 
mantelpiece.  A  child  might  read  the  sim- 
plicity of  its  proud  significance — an  ox  ram- 
pant quartered  in  a  field  of  gules  with  a  pike 
dexter  and  a  dog  intermittent  in  a  plain  paral- 
lelogram right  centre,  with  the  motto,  "Hie, 
haec,  hoc,  hujus,  hujus,  hujus." 


16 


Lord  Oochead's  Secret 


"Father!" — The  girl's  voice  rang  clear 
through  the  half  light  of  the  wainscoted  li- 
brary. Gwendoline  Oxhead  had  thrown  her- 
self about  the  earl's  neck.  The  girl  was  radi- 
ant with  happiness.  Gwendoline  was  a  beau- 
tiful girl  of  thirty-three,  typically  English  in 
the  freshness  of  her  girlish  innocence.  She 
wore  one  of  those  charming  walking  suits  of 
brown  holland  so  fashionable  among  the  aris- 
tocracy of  England,  while  a  rough  leather  belt 
encircled  her  waist  in  a  single  sweep.  She  bore 
herself  with  that  sweet  simplicity  which  was 
her  greatest  charm.  She  was  probably  more 
simple  than  any  girl  of  her  age  for  miles 
around.  Gwendoline  was  the  pride  of  her 
father's  heart,  for  he  saw  reflected  in  her  the 
qualities  of  his  race. 

"Father,"  she  said,  a  blush  mantling  her 
fair  face,  "I  am  so  happy,  oh  so  happy;  Edwin 
has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  we  have 
plighted  our  troth — at  least  if  you  consent. 
For  I  will  never  marry  without  my  father's 
warrant,"  she  added,  raising  her  head  proudly; 
"I  am  too  much  of  an  Oxhead  for  that." 

Then  as  she  gazed  into  the  old  earl's 
stricken  face,  the  girl's  mood  changed  at  once. 
"Father,"  she  cried,  "father,  are  you  ill? 

17 


Literary  Lapses 


What  is  it?  Shall  I  ring?"  As  she  spoke 
Gwendoline  reached  for  the  heavy  bell-rope 
that  hung  beside  the  wall,  but  the  earl,  fearful 
that  her  frenzied  efforts  might  actually  make 
it  ring,  checked  her  hand.  "I  am,  indeed, 
deeply  troubled,"  said  Lord  Oxhead,  "but  of 
that  anon.  Tell  me  first  what  is  this  news 
you  bring.  I  hope,  Gwendoline,  that  your 
choice  has  been  worthy  of  an  Oxhead,  and  that 
he  to  whom  you  have  plighted  your  troth  will 
be  worthy  to  bear  our  motto  with  his  own." 
And,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  escutcheon  before 
him,  the  earl  murmured  half  unconsciously, 
"Hie,  haec,  hoc,  hujus,  hujus,  hujus,"  breath- 
ing perhaps  a  prayer  as  many  of  his  ancestors 
had  done  before  him  that  he  might  never  for- 
get it. 

"Father,"  continued  Gwendoline,  half  tim- 
idly, "Edwin  is  an  American." 

"You  surprise  me  indeed,"  answered  Lord 
Oxhead;  "and  yet,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
his  daughter  with  the  courtly  grace  that 
marked  the  nobleman  of  the  old  school,  "why 
should  we  not  respect  and  admire  the  Ameri- 
cans? Surely  there  have  been  great  names 
among  them.  Indeed,  our  ancestor  Sir  Amyas 
.Oxhead  was,  I  think,  married  to  Pocahontas 

18 


Lord  OxJiead's  Secret 


— at  least  if  not  actually  married" — the  earl 
hesitated  a  moment. 

"At  least  they  loved  one  another,"  said 
Gwendoline  simply. 

"Precisely,"  said  the  earl,  with  relief,  "they 
loved  one  another,  yes,  exactly."  Then  as  if 
musing  to  himself,  "Yes,  there  have  been  great 
Americans.  Bolivar  was  an  American.  The 
two  Washingtons — George  and  Booker — are 
both  Americans.  There  have  been  others  too, 
though  for  the  moment  I  do  not  recall  their 
names.  But  tell  me,  Gwendoline,  this  Edwin 
of  yours — where  is  his  family  seat?" 

"It  is  at  Oshkosh,  Wisconsin,  father." 

"Ahl  say  you  so?"  rejoined  the  earl,  with 
rising  interest.  "Oshkosh  is,  indeed,  a  grand 
old  name.  The  Oshkosh  are  a  Russian  family. 
An  Ivan  Oshkosh  came  to  England  with  Peter 
the  Great  and  married  my  ancestress.  Their 
descendant  in  the  second  degree  once  removed, 
Mixtup  Oshkosh,  fought  at  the  burning  of 
Moscow  and  later  at  the  sack  of  Salamanca 
and  the  treaty  of  Adrianople.  And  Wisconsin 
too,"  the  old  nobleman  went  on,  his  features 
kindling  with  animation,  for  he  had  a  passion 
for  heraldry,  genealogy,  chronology,  and  com- 
mercial geography;  "the  Wisconsins,  or  better, 

19 


Literary  Lapses 


I  think,  the  Guisconsins,  are  of  old  blood.  A 
Guisconsin  followed  Henry  I  to  Jerusalem  and 
rescued  my  ancestor  Hardup  Oxhead  from  the 
Saracens.  Another  Guisconsin  .  .  ." 

"Nay,  father,"  said  Gwendoline,  gently  in- 
terrupting, "Wisconsin  is  not  Edwin's  own 
name:  that  is,  I  believe,  the  name  of  his  es- 
tate. My  lover's  name  is  Edwin  Einstein." 

"Einstein,"  repeated  the  earl  dubiously — 
"an  Indian  name  perhaps;  yet  the  Indians  are 
many  of  them  of  excellent  family.  An  ances- 
tor of  mine  .  .  ." 

"Father,"  said  Gwendoline,  again  inter- 
rupting, "here  is  a  portrait  of  Edwin.  Judge 
for  yourself  if  he  be  noble."  With  this  she 
placed  in  her  father's  hand  an  American  tin- 
type, tinted  in  pink  and  brown.  The  picture 
represented  a  typical  specimen  of  American 
manhood  of  that  Anglo-Semitic  type  so  often 
seen  in  persons  of  mixed  English  and  Jewish 
extraction.  The  figure  was  well  over  five  feet 
two  inches  in  height  and  broad  in  proportion. 
The  graceful  sloping  shoulders  harmonised 
with  the  slender  and  well-poised  waist,  and 
with  a  hand  pliant  and  yet  prehensile.  The 
pallor  of  the  features  was  relieved  by  a  droop- 
ing black  moustache. 

20 


Lord  Oxhead's  Secret 


Such  was  Edwin  Einstein  to  whom  Gwen- 
doline's heart,  if  not  her  hand,  was  already 
affianced.  Their  love  had  been  so  simple  and 
yet  so  strange.  It  seemed  to  Gwendoline  that  it 
was  but  a  thing  of  yesterday,  and  yet  in  reality 
they  had  met  three  weeks  ago.  Love  had 
drawn  them  irresistibly  together.  To  Edwin 
the  fair  English  girl  with  her  old  name  and 
wide  estates  possessed  a  charm  that  he  scarcely 
dared  confess  to  himself.  He  determined  to 
woo  her.  To  Gwendoline  there  was  that  in 
Edwin's  bearing,  the  rich  jewels  that  he  wore, 
the  vast  fortune  that  rumour  ascribed  to  him, 
that  appealed  to  something  romantic  and 
chivalrous  in  her  nature.  She  loved  to  hear 
him  speak  of  stocks  and  bonds,  corners  and 
margins,  and  his  father's  colossal  business.  It 
all  seemed  so  noble  and  so  far  above  the  sordid 
lives  of  the  people  about  her.  Edwin,  too, 
loved  to  hear  the  girl  talk  of  her  father's  es- 
tates, of  the  diamond-hilted  sword  that  the 
saladin  had  given,  or  had  lent,  to  her  ancestor 
hundreds  of  years  ago.  Her  description  of 
her  father,  the  old  earl,  touched  something  ro- 
mantic in  Edwin's  generous  heart.  He  was 
never  tired  of  asking  how  old  he  was,  was  he 
rob.  3t,  did  a  shock,  a  sudden  shock,  affect  him 

21 


Literary  Lapses 


much?  and  so  on.  Then  had  come  the  eve- 
ning that  Gwendoline  loved  to  live  over  and 
over  again  in  her  mind  when  Edwin  had  asked 
her  in  his  straightforward,  manly  way,  whether 
— subject  to  certain  written  stipulations  to  be 
considered  later — she  would  be  his  wife: 
and  she,  putting  her  hand  confidingly  in  his 
hand,  answered  simply,  that — subject  to  the 
consent  of  her  father  and  pending  always  the 
necessary  legal  formalities  and  inquiries — she 
would. 

It  had  all  seemed  like  a  dream:  and  now 
Edwin  Einstein  had  come  in  person  to  ask  her 
hand  from  the  earl,  her  father.  Indeed,  he 
was  at  this  moment  in  the  outer  hall  testing 
the  gold  leaf  in  the  picture-frames  with  his 
pen-knife  while  waiting  for  his  affianced  to 
break  the  fateful  news  to  Lord  Oxhead. 

Gwendoline  summoned  her  courage  for  a 
great  effort.  "Papa,"  she  said,  "there  is  one 
other  thing  that  it  is  fair  to  tell  you.  Edwin's 
father  is  in  business." 

The  earl  started  from  his  seat  in  blank 
amazement.  "In  business!"  he  repeated,  "the 
father  of  the  suitor  of  the  daughter  of  an  Ox- 
head  in  business!  My  daughter  the  step- 
daughter of  the  grandfather  of  my  grandson! 

22 


Lord  Oxhead's  Secret 


Are  you  mad,  girl?  It  is  too  much,  too 
much!" 

"But,  father,"  pleaded  the  beautiful  girl  in 
anguish,  "hear  me.  It  is  Edwin's  father — 
Sarcophagus  Einstein,  senior — not  Edwin  him- 
self. Edwin  does  nothing.  He  has  never 
earned  a  penny.  He  is  quite  unable  to  support 
himself.  You  have  only  to  see  him  to  believe 
it.  Indeed,  dear  father,  he  is  just  like  us.  He 
is  here  now,  in  this  house,  waiting  to  see  you. 
If  it  were  not  for  his  great  wealth  .  .  ." 

"Girl,"  said  the  early  sternly,  "I  care 
not  for  the  man's  riches.  How  much  has 
he?" 

"Fifteen  million  two  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars,"  answered  Gwendoline.  Lord 
Oxhead  leaned  his  head  against  the  mantel- 
piece. His  mind  was  in  a  whirl.  He  was  try- 
ing to  calculate  the  yearly  interest  on  fifteen 
and  a  quarter  million  dollars  at  four  and  a  half 
per  cent  reduced  to  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence. 
It  was  bootless.  His  brain,  trained  by  long 
years  of  high  living  and  plain  thinking,  had 
become  too  subtle;  too  refined  an  instrument 
for  arithmetic. 


* 
23 


IMerary  Lapses 


At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Ed- 
win Einstein  stood  before  the  earl.  Gwen- 
doline never  forgot  what  happened.  Through 
her  life  the  picture  of  it  haunted  her — her 
lover  upright  at  the  door,  his  fine  frank  gaze 
fixed  inquiringly  on  the  diamond  pin  in  her 
father's  necktie,  and  he,  her  father,  raising 
from  the  mantelpiece  a  face  of  agonised  amaze- 
ment. 

"You!  You!"  he  gasped.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  to  his  full  height,  swaying  and  grop- 
ing in  the  air,  then  fell  prostrate  his  full  length 
upon  the  floor.  The  lovers  rushed  to  his  aid. 
Edwin  tore  open  his  neckcloth  and  plucked 
aside  his  diamond  pin  to  give  him  air.  But 
it  was  too  late.  Earl  Oxhead  had  breathed  his 
last.  Life  had  fled.  The  earl  was  extinct. 
That  is  to  say,  he  was  dead. 

The  reason  of  his  death  was  never  known. 
Had  the  sight  of  Edwin  killed  him  ?  It  might 
have.  The  old  family  doctor  hurriedly  sum- 
moned declared  his  utter  ignorance.  This, 
too,  was  likely.  Edwin  himself  could  explain 
nothing.  But  it  was  observed  that  after  the 
earl's  death  and  his  marriage  with  Gwendoline 
he  was  a  changed  man;  he  dressed  better, 
talked  much  better  English. 

24 


Lord  Oxhead's  Secret 


The  wedding  itself  was  quiet,  almost  sad. 
At  Gwendoline's  request  there  was  no  wedding 
breakfast,  no  bridesmaids,  and  no  reception, 
while  Edwin,  respecting  his  bride's  bereave- 
ment, insisted  that  there  should  be  no  best 
man,  no  flowers,  no  presents,  and  no  honey- 
moon. 

Thus  Lord  Oxhead's  secret  died  with  him. 
It  was  probably  too  complicated  to  be  inter- 
esting anyway. 


Boar  ding -House  Geometry 


DEFINITIONS  AND  AXIOMS 

ALL   boarding-houses   are    the    same 
boarding-house. 
Boarders  in  the  same  boarding- 
house  and  on  the  same  flat  are  equal 
to  one  another. 

A  single  room  is  that  which  has  no  parts 
and  no  magnitude. 

The  landlady  of  a  boarding-house  is  a  par- 
allelogram— that  is,  an  oblong  angular  figure, 
which  cannot  be  described,  but  which  is  equal 
to  anything. 

A  wrangle  is  the  disinclination  of  two  board- 
ers to  each  other  that  meet  together  but  are 
not  in  the  same  line. 

All  the  other  rooms  being  taken,  a  single 
room  is  said  to  be  a  double  room. 

POSTULATES  AND   PROPOSITIONS 

A  pie  may  be  produced  any  number  of 
times. 

26 


Hoarding-House  Geometry 


The  landlady  can  be  reduced  to  her  lowest 
terms  by  a  series  of  propositions. 

A  bee  line  may  be  made  from  any  boarding- 
house  to  any  other  boarding-house. 

The  clothes  of  a  boarding-house  bed,  though 
produced  ever  so  far  both  ways,  will  not  meet. 

Any  two  meals  at  a  boarding-house  are  to- 
gether less  than  two  square  meals. 

If  from  the  opposite  ends  of  a  boarding- 
house  a  line  be  drawn  passing  through  all  the 
rooms  in  turn,  then  the  stovepipe  which  warms 
the  boarders  will  lie  within  that  line. 

On  the  same  bill  and  on  the  same  side  of  it 
there  should  not  be  two  charges  for  the  same 
thing. 

If  there  be  two  boarders  on  the  same  flat, 
and  the  amount  of  side  of  the  one  be  equal  to 
the  amount  of  side  of  the  other,  each  to  each, 
and  the  wrangle  between  one  boarder  and  the 
landlady  be  equal  to  the  wrangle  between  the 
landlady  and  the  other,  then  shall  the  weekly 
bills  of  the  two  boarders  be  equal  also,  each 
to  each. 

For  if  not,  let  one  bill  be  the  greater. 

Then  the  other  bill  is  less  than  it  might  have 
been — which  is  absurd. 


SOME  people — not  you  nor  I,  because 
we  are  so  awfully  self-possessed — but 
some   people,    find   great   difficulty   in 
saying  good-bye  when  making  a  call  or 
spending  the  evening.     As  the  moment  draws 
near  when  the  visitor  feels  that  he  is  fairly  en- 
titled to  go  away  he  rises  and  says  abruptly, 
"Well,  I  think  I  ..."     Then  the  people  say, 
"Oh,  must  you  go  now  ?     Surely  it's  early  yet !" 
and  a  pitiful  struggle  ensues. 

I  think  the  saddest  case  of  this  kind  of  thing 
that  I  ever  knew  was  that  of  my  poor  friend 
Melpomenus  Jones,  a  curate — such  a  dear 
young  man,  and  only  twenty-three!  He  sim- 
ply couldn't  get  away  from  people.  He  was 
too  modest  to  tell  a  lie,  and  too  religious  to 
wish  to  appear  rude.  Now  it  happened  that 
he  went  to  call  on  some  friends  of  his  on  the 
very  first  afternoon  of  his  summer  vacation. 
The  next  six  weeks  were  entirely  his  own — 
absolutely  nothing  to  do.  He  chatted  awhile, 
drank  two  cups  of  tea,  then  braced  himself 
for  the  effort  and  said  suddenly: 

28 


The  Awful  Fate  of  Melpomenus  Jones 

"Well,  I  think  I  ..." 

But  the  lady  of  the  house  said,  "Oh,  no!  Mr. 
Jones,  can't  you  really  stay  a  little  longer?" 

Jones  was  always  truthful.  "Oh,  yes,"  he 
said,  "of  course,  I — er — can  stay." 

"Then  please  don't  go." 

He  stayed.  He  drank  eleven  cups  of  tea. 
Night  was  falling.  He  rose  again. 

"Well  now,"  he  said  shyly,  "I  think  I 
really  .  .  ." 

"You  must  go?"  said  the  lady  politely.  "I 
thought  perhaps  you  could  have  stayed  to  din- 
ner .  .  ." 

"Oh  well,  so  I  could,  you  know,"  Jones  said, 
"if  .  .  ." 

"Then  please  stay,  I'm  sure  my  husband  will 
be  delighted." 

"All  right,"  he  said  feebly,  "I'll  stay,"  and 
he  sank  back  into  his  chair,  just  full  of  tea, 
and  miserable. 

Papa  came  home.  They  had  dinner.  All 
through  the  meal  Jones  sat  planning  to  leave 
at  eight-thirty.  All  the  family  wondered 
whether  Mr.  Jones  was  stupid  and  sulky,  or 
only  stupid. 

After  dinner  mamma  undertook  to  "draw 
him  out,"  and  showed  him  photographs.  She 

29 


Literary  Lapses 


showed  him  all  the  family  museum,  several 
gross  of  them — photos  of  papa's  uncle  and  his 
wife,  and  mamma's  brother  and  his  little  boy, 
an  awfully  interesting  photo  of  papa's  uncle's 
friend  in  his  Bengal  uniform,  an  awfully  well- 
taken  photo  of  papa's  grandfather's  partner's 
dog,  and  an  awfully  wicked  one  of  papa  as  the 
devil  for  a  fancy-dress  ball. 

At  eight-thirty  Jones  had  examined  seventy- 
one  photographs.  There  were  about  sixty- 
nine  more  that  he  hadn't.  Jones  rose. 

"I  must  say  good  night  now,"  he  pleaded. 

"Say  good  night!"  they  said,  "why  it's 
only  half-past  eight!  Have  you  anything  to 
do?" 

"Nothing,"  he  admitted,  and  muttered  some- 
thing about  staying  six  weeks,  and  then  laughed 
miserably. 

Just  then  it  turned  out  that  the  favourite 
child  of  the  family,  such  a  dear  little  romp, 
had  hidden  Mr.  Jones's  hat;  so  papa  said  that 
he  must  stay,  and  invited  him  to  a  pipe  and 
a  chat.  Papa  had  the  pipe  and  gave  Jones 
the  chat,  and  still  he  stayed.  Every  moment 
he  meant  to  take  the  plunge,  but  couldn't. 
Then  papa  began  to  get  very  tired  of  Jones, 
and  fidgeted  and  finally  said,  with  jocular  irony, 

30 


The  Awful  Fate  of  Melpomenus  Jones 

that  Jones  had  better  stay  all  night,  they  could 
give  him  a  shake-down.  Jones  mistook  his 
meaning  and  thanked  him  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and  papa  put  Jones  to  bed  in  the  spare  room 
and  cursed  him  heartily. 

After  breakfast  next  day,  papa  went  off  to 
his  work  in  the  City,  and  left  Jones  playing 
with  the  baby,  broken-hearted.  His  nerve  was 
utterly  gone.  He  was  meaning  to  leave  all 
day,  but  the  thing  had  got  on  his  mind  and  he 
simply  couldn't.  When  papa  came  home  in  the 
evening  he  was  surprised  and  chagrined  to  find 
Jones  still  there.  He  thought  to  jockey  him 
out  with  a  jest,  and  said  he  thought  he'd  have 
to  charge  him  for  his  board,  he !  he !  The  un- 
happy young  man  stared  wildly  for  a  moment, 
then  wrung  papa's  hand,  paid  him  a  month's 
board  in  advance,  and  broke  down  and  sobbed 
like  a  child. 

In  the  days  that  followed  he  was  moody 
and  unapproachable.  He  lived,  of  course,  en- 
tirely in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  lack  of 
air  and  exercise  began  to  tell  sadly  on  his 
health.  He  passed  his  time  in  drinking  tea 
and  looking  at  the  photographs.  He  would 
stand  for  hours  gazing  at  the  photographs  of 
papa's  uncle's  friend  in  his  Bengal  uniform — 

31 


Literary  Lapses 


talking  to  it,  sometimes  swearing  bitterly  at 
it.  His  mind  was  visibly  failing. 

At  length  the  crash  came.  They  carried 
him  upstairs  in  a  raging  delirium  of  fever. 
The  illness  that  followed  was  terrible.  He 
recognised  no  one,  not  even  papa's  uncle's 
friend  in  his  Bengal  uniform.  At  times  he 
would  start  up  from  his  bed  and  shriek,  "Well, 
I  think  I  ..."  and  then  fall  back  upon  the 
pillow  with  a  horrible  laugh.  Then,  again,  he 
would  leap  up  and  cry,  "Another  cup  of  tea 
and  more  photographs!  More  photographs! 
Har!  Har!" 

At  length,  after  a  month  of  agony,  on  the 
last  day  of  his  vacation,  he  passed  away.  They 
say  that  when  the  last  moment  came,  he  sat 
up  in  bed  with  a  beautiful  smile  of  confidence 
playing  upon  his  face,  and  said,  "Well — the 
angels  are  calling  me ;  I'm  afraid  I  really  must 
go  now.  Good  afternoon." 

And  the  rushing  of  his  spirit  from  its  prison- 
house  was  as  rapid  as  a  hunted  cat  passing  over 
a  garden  fence. 


A  Christmas  Letter 


(In  answer  to  a  young  lady  who  has  sent  an  invita- 
tion to  be  present  at  a  children's  party) 

MADEMOISELLE, 
Allow  me  very  gratefully  but 
firmly  to   refuse  your  kind  invi- 
tation.   You  doubtless  mean  well  j 
but  your  ideas  are  unhappily  mistaken. 

Let  us  understand  one  another  once  and  for 
all.  I  cannot  at  my  mature  age  participate 
in  the  sports  of  children  with  such  abandon 
as  I  could  wish.  I  entertain,  and  have  al- 
ways entertained,  the  sincerest  regard  for 
such  games  as  Hunt-the-Slipper  and  Blind- 
Man's  Buff.  But  I  have  now  reached  a  time 
of  life,  when,  to  have  my  eyes  blindfolded  and 
to  have  a  powerful  boy  of  ten  hit  me  in  the 
back  with  a  hobby-horse  and  ask  me  to  guess 
who  hit  me,  provokes  me  to  a  fit  of  retaliation 
which  could  only  culminate  in  reckless  crimi- 
nality. Nor  can  I  cover  my  shoulders  with  a 
drawing-room  rug  and  crawl  round  on  my 
hands  and  knees  under  the  pretence  that  I  am 
a  bear  without  a  sense  of  personal  insufficiency, 
which  is  painful  to  me. 

Neither  can  I  look  on  with  a  complacent  eye 
33- 


Literary  Lapses 


at  the  sad  spectacle  of  your  young  clerical 
friend,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Uttermost  Farthing, 
abandoning  himself  to  such  gambols  and  ap- 
pearing in  the  role  of  life  and  soul  of  the  eve- 
ning. Such  a  degradation  of  his  holy  calling 
grieves  me,  and  I  cannot  but  suspect  him  of 
ulterior  motives. 

You  inform  me  that  your  maiden  aunt  in- 
tends to  help  you  to  entertain  the  party.  I 
have  not,  as  you  know,  the  honour  of  your 
aunt's  acquaintance,  yet  I  think  I  may  with 
reason  surmise  that  she  will  organise  games 
— guessing  games — in  which  she  will  ask  me 
to  name  a  river  in  Asia  beginning  with  a  Z; 
on  my  failure  to  do  so  she  will  put  a  hot  plate 
down  my  neck  as  a  forfeit,  and  the  children 
will  clap  their  hands.  These  games,  my  dear 
young  friend,  involve  the  use  of  a  more  adapt- 
able intellect  than  mine,  and  I  cannot  consent 
to  be  a  party  to  them. 

May  I  say  in  conclusion  that  I  do  not  con- 
sider   a    five-cent    pen-wiper    from    the    top 
branch  of  a  Xmas  tree  any  adequate  compensa- 
tion for  the  kind  of  evening  you  propose. 
I  have  the  honour 

To  subscribe  myself, 

Your  obedient  servant. 

34 


How  to  Make  a  Million  Dollars 

I    MIX  a  good  deal  with  the  Millionaires. 
I  like  them.     I  like  their  faces.     I  like 
the  way  they  live.     I  like  the  things  they 
eat.    The  more  we  mix  together  the  bet- 
ter I  like  the  things  we  mix. 

Especially  I  like  the  way  they  dress,  their 
grey  check  trousers,  their  white  check  waist- 
coats, their  heavy  gold  chains,  and  the  signet- 
rings  that  they  sign  their  cheques  with.  My! 
they  look  nice.  Get  six  or  seven  of  them  sit- 
ting together  in  the  club  and  it's  a  treat  to  see 
them.  And  if  they  get  the  least  dust  on  them, 
men  come  and  brush  it  off.  Yes,  and  are  glad 
to.  I'd  like  to  take  some  of  the  dust  off  them 
myself. 

Even  more  than  what  they  eat  I  like  their 
intellectual  grasp.  It  is  wonderful.  Just 
watch  them  read.  They  simply  read  all  the 
time.  Go  into  the  club  at  any  hour  and  you'll 
see  three  or  four  of  them  at  it.  And  the 
things  they  can  read!  You'd  think  that  a 
man  who'd  been  driving  hard  in  the  office  from 
eleven  o'clock  until  three,  with  only  an  hour 

35 


Literary  Lapses 


and  a  half  for  lunch,  would  be  too  fagged. 
Not  a  bit.  These  men  can  sit  down  after  of- 
fice hours  and  read  the  Sketch  and  the  Police 
Gazette  and  the  Pink  Un,  and  understand  the 
jokes  just  as  well  as  I  can. 

What  I  love  to  do  is  to  walk  up  and  down 
among  them  and  catch  the  little  scraps  of  con- 
versation. The  other  day  I  heard  one  lean 
forward  and  say,  "Well,  I  offered  him  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half  and  said  I  wouldn't  give  a 
cent  more,  he  could  either  take  it  or  leave 

it "  I  just  longed  to  break  in  and  say, 

"What !  what !  a  million  and  a  half !  Oh !  say 
that  again!  Offer  it  to  me,  to  either  take  it 
or  leave  it.  Do  try  me  once:  I  know  I  can: 
or  here,  make  it  a  plain  million  and  let's  call 
it  done." 

Not  that  these  men  are  careless  over  money. 
No,  sir.  Don't  think  it.  Of  course  they 
don't  take  much  account  of  big  money,  a  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  at  a  shot  or  anything  of 
that  sort.  But  little  money.  You've  no  idea 
till  you  know  them  how  anxious  they  get  about 
a  cent,  or  half  a  -cent,  or  less. 

Why,  two  of  them  came  into  the  club  the 
other  night  just  frantic  with  delight:  they  said 
wheat  had  risen  and  they'd  cleaned  up  four 

36 


How  to  Make  a  Million  Dollars 

cents  each  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  They 
bought  a  dinner  for  sixteen  on  the  strength  of 
it.  I  don't  understand  it.  I've  often  made 
twice  as  much  as  that  writing  for  the  papers 
and  never  felt  like  boasting  about  it. 

One  night  I  heard  one  man  say,  "Well, 
let's  call  up  New  York  and  offer  them  a  quar- 
ter of  a  cent."  Great  heavens !  Imagine  pay- 
ing the  cost  of  calling  up  New  York,  nearly 
five  million  people,  late  at  night  and  of- 
fering them  a  quarter  of  a  cent!  And  yet — 
did  New  York  get  mad?  No,  they  took  it. 
Of  course  it's  high  finance.  I  don't  pretend 
to  understand  it.  I  tried  after  that  to  call  up 
Chicago  and  offer  it  a  cent  and  a  half,  and 
to  call  up  Hamilton,  Ontario,  and  offer  it  half 
a  dollar,  and  the  operator  only  thought  I  was 
crazy. 

All  this  shows,  of  course,  that  I've  been 
studying  how  the  millionaires  do  it.  I  have. 
For  years.  I  thought  it  might  be  helpful  to 
young  men  just  beginning  to  work  and  anxious 
to  stop. 

You  know,  many  a  man  realises  late  in  life 
that  if  when  he  was  a  boy  he  had  known  what 
he  knows  now,  instead  of  being  what  he  is  he 
might  be  what  he  won't;  but  how  few  boys 

37 


Literary  Lapses 


stop  to  think  that  if  they  knew  what  they  don't 
know  instead  of  being  what  they  will  be,  they 
wouldn't  be?  These  are  awful  thoughts. 

At  any  rate,  I've  been  gathering  hints  on 
how  it  is  they  do  it. 

One  thing  I'm  sure  about.  If  a  young  man 
wants  to  make  a  million  dollars  he's  got  to  be 
mighty  careful  about  his  diet  and  his  living. 
This  may  seem  hard.  But  success  is  only 
achieved  with  pains. 

There  is  no  use  in  a  young  man  who  hopes 
to  make  a  million  dollars  thinking  he's  entitled 
to  get  up  at  7.30,  eat  force  and  poached  eggs, 
drink  cold  water  at  lunch,  and  go  to  bed  at  10 
p.m.  You  can't  do  it.  I've  seen  too  many  mil- 
lionaires for  that.  If  you  want  to  be  a  million- 
aire you  mustn't  get  up  till  ten  in  the  morning. 
They  never  do.  They  darn't.  It  would  be 
as  much  as  their  business  is  worth  if  they  were 
seen  on  the  street  at  half-past  nine. 

And  the  old  idea  of  abstemiousness  is  all 
wrong.  To  be  a  millionaire  you  need  cham- 
pagne, lots  of  it  and  all  the  time.  That  and 
Scotch  whisky  and  soda:  you  have  to  sit  up 
nearly  all  night  and  drink  buckets  of  it.  This 
is  what  clears  the  brain  for  business  next  day. 
I've  seen  some  of  these  men  with  their  brains 

38 


How  to  Make  a  Million  Dollars 

so  clear  in  the  morning,  that  their  faces  look 
positively  boiled. 

To  live  like  this  requires,  of  course,  resolu- 
tion. But  you  can  buy  that  by  the  pint. 

Therefore,  my  dear  young  man,  if  you  want 
to  get  moved  on  from  your  present  status  in 
business,  change  your  life.  When  your  land- 
lady brings  your  bacon  and  eggs  for  breakfast, 
throw  them  out  of  window  to  the  dog  and  tell 
her  to  bring  you  some  chilled  asparagus  and  a 
pint  of  Moselle.  Then  telephone  to  your 
employer  that  you'll  be  down  about  eleven 
o'clock.  You  will  get  moved  on.  Yes,  very 
quickly. 

Just  how  the  millionaires  make  the  money 
is  a  difficult  question.  But  one  way  is  this. 
Strike  the  town  with  five  cents  in  your  pocket. 
They  nearly  all  do  this;  they've  told  me 
again  and  again  (men  with  millions  and 
millions)  that  the  first  time  they  struck  town 
they  had  only  five  cents.  That  seems  to  have 
given  them  their  start.  Of  course,  it's  not 
easy  to  do.  I've  tried  it  several  times.  I  nearly 
did  it  once.  I  borrowed  five  cents,  carried  it 
away  out  of  town,  and  then  turned  and  came 
back  at  the  town  with  an  awful  rush.  If  I 
hadn't  struck  a  beer  saloon  in  the  suburbs  and 

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Literary  Lapses 


spent  the  five  cents   I   might  have  been   rich 
to-day. 

Another  good  plan  is  to  start  something. 
Something  on  a  huge  scale:  something  nobody 
ever  thought  of.  For  instance,  one  man  I 
know  told  me  that  once  he  was  down  in 
Mexico  without  a  cent  (he'd  lost  his  five  in 
striking  Central  America)  and  he  noticed  that 
they  had  no  power  plants.  So  he  started  some 
and  made  a  mint  of  money.  Another  man  that 
I  know  was  once  stranded  in  New  York,  abso- 
lutely without  a  nickel.  Well,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  what  was  needed  were  buildings  ten 
stories  higher  than  any  that  had  been  put  up. 
So  he  built  two  and  sold  them  right  away. 
Ever  so  many  millionaires  begin  in  some  such 
simple  way  as  that. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  much  easier  way  than 
any  of  these.  I  almost  hate  to  tell  this,  be- 
cause I  want  to  do  it  myself. 

I  learned  of  it  just  by  chance  one  night  at 
the  club.  There  is  one  old  man  there,  ex- 
tremely rich,  with  one  of  the  best  faces  of  the 
lot,  just  like  a  hyena.  I  never  used  to  know 
how  he  had  got  so  rich.  So  one  evening  I 
asked  one  of  the  millionaires  how  old  Bloggs 
had  made  all  his  money. 

40 


How  to  Make  a  Million  Dollars 

.q 

"How  he  made  it?"  he  answered  with  a 
sneer.  "Why  he  made  it  by  taking  it  out  of 
widows  and  orphans." 

Widows  and  orphans!  I  thought,  what  an 
excellent  idea.  But  who  would  have  suspected 
that  they  had  it? 

"And  how,"  I  asked  pretty  cautiously,  "did 
he  go  at  it  to  get  it  out  of  them?" 

"Why,"  the  man  answered,  "he  just  ground 
them  under  his  heels,  that  was  how." 

Now  isn't  that  simple?  I've  thought  of 
that  conversation  often  since  and  I  mean  to 
try  it.  If  I  can  get  hold  of  them,  I'll  grind 
them  quick  enough.  But  how  to  get  them. 
Most  of  the  widows  I  know  look  pretty  solid 
for  that  sort  of  thing,  and  as  for  orphans,  it 
must  take  an  awful  lot  of  them.  Meantime 
I  am  waiting,  and  if  I  ever  get  a  large  bunch 
of  orphans  all  together,  I'll  stamp  on  them 
and  see. 

I  find,  too,  on  inquiry,  that  you  can  also 
grind  it  out  of  clergymen.  They  say  they 
grind  nicely.  But  perhaps  orphans  are  easier. 


How  to  Live  to  Be  200 


1 


"^WENTY  years  ago  I  knew  a  man 
called  Jiggins,  who  had  the  Health 
Habit. 

He  used  to  take  a  cold  plunge 
every  morning.  He  said  it  opened  his  pores. 
After  it  he  took  a  hot  sponge.  He  said  it 
closed  the  pores.  He  got  so  that  he  could  open 
and  shut  his  pores  at  will. 

Jiggins  used  to  stand  and  breathe  at  an  open 
window  for  half  an  hour  before  dressing.  He 
said  it  expanded  his  lungs.  He  might,  of 
course,  have  had  it  done  in  a  shoe-store  with 
a  boot  stretcher,  but  after  all  it  cost  him  noth- 
ing this  way,  and  what  is  half  an  hour? 

After  he  had  got  his  undershirt  on,  Jiggins 
used  to  hitch  himself  up  like  a  dog  in  harness 
and  do  Sandow  exercises.  He  did  them  for- 
wards, backwards,  and  hind-side  up. 

He  could  have  got  a  job  as  a  dog  anywhere. 
He  spent  all  his  time  at  this  kind  of  thing.  In 
his  spare  time  at  the  office,  he  used  to  lie  on 
his  stomach  on  the  floor  and  see  if  he  could 
lift  himself  up  with  his  knuckles.  If  he  could, 

42 


How  to  Live  to  Be  200 


then  he  tried  some  other  way  until  he  found 
one  that  he  couldn't  do.  Then  he  would  spend 
the  rest  of  his  lunch  hour  on  his  stomach, 
perfectly  happy. 

In  the  evenings  in  his  room  he  used  to  lift 
iron  bars,  cannon-balls,  heave  dumb-bells,  and 
haul  himself  up  to  the  ceiling  with  his  teeth. 
You  could  hear  the  thumps  half  a  mile. 

He  liked  it. 

He  spent  half  the  night  slinging  himself 
around  his  room.  He  said  it  made  his  brain 
clear.  When  he  got  his  brain  perfectly  clear, 
he  went  to  bed  and  slept.  As  soon  as  he  woke, 
he  began  clearing  it  again. 

Jiggins  is  dead.  He  was,  of  course,  a 
pioneer,  but  the  fact  that  he  dumb-belled  him- 
self to  death  at  an  early  age  does  not  pre- 
vent a  whole  generation  of  young  men  from 
following  in  his  path. 

They  are  ridden  by  the  Health  Mania. 

They  make  themselves  a  nuisance. 

They  get  up  at  impossible  hours.  They 
go  out  in  silly  little  suits  and  run  Marathon 
heats  before  breakfast.  They  chase  around 
barefoot  to  get  the  dew  on  their  feet.  They 
hunt  for  ozone.  They  bother  about  pepsin. 
They  won't  eat  meat  because  it  has  too  much 

43 


Uiterary  Lapses 


nitrogen.  They  won't  eat  fruit  because  it 
hasn't  any.  They  prefer  albumen  and  starch 
and  nitrogen  to  huckleberry  pie  and  dough- 
nuts. They  won't  drink  water  out  of  a  tap. 
They  won't  eat  sardines  out  of  a  can.  They 
won't  use  oysters  out  of  a  pail.  They  won't 
drink  milk  out  of  a  glass.  They  are  afraid 
of  alcohol  in  any  shape.  Yes,  sir,  afraid. 
"Cowards." 

And  after  all  their  fuss  they  presently  incur 
some  simple  old-fashioned  illness  and  die  like 
anybody  Ise. 

Now  people  of  this  sort  have  no  chance  to 
attain  any  great  age.  They  are  on  the  wrong 
track. 

Listen.  Do  you  want  to  live  to  be  really 
old,  to  enjoy  a  grand,  green,  exuberant, 
boastful  old  age  and  to  make  yourself  a 
nuisance  to  your  whole  neighbourhood  with 
your  reminiscences? 

Then  cut  out  all  this  nonsense.  Cut  it  out. 
Get  up  in  the  morning  at  a  sensible  hour. 
The  time  to  get  up  is  when  you  have  to,  not 
before.  If  your  office  opens  at  eleven,  get  up 
at  ten-thirty..  Take  your  chance  on  ozone. 
There  isn't  any  such  thing  anyway.  Or,  if 
there  is,  you  can  buy  a  Thermos  bottle  full  for 

44 


How  to  Live  to  Be  200 


five  cents,  and  put  it  on  a  shelf  in  your  cup- 
board. If  your  work  begins  at  seven  in  the 
morning,  get  up  at  ten  minutes  to,  but  don't 
be  liar  enough  to  say  that  you  like  it.  It  isn't 
exhilarating,  and  you  know  it. 

Also,  drop  all  that  cold-bath  business.  You 
never  did  it  when  you  were  a  boy.  Don't  be 
a  fool  now.  If  you  must  take  a  bath  (you 
don't  really  need  to),  take  it  warm.  The 
pleasure  of  getting  out  of  a  cold  bed  and  creep- 
ing into  a  hot  bath  beats  a  cold  plunge  to  death. 
In  any  case,  stop  gassing  about  your  tub  and 
your  "shower,"  as  if  you  were  the  only  man 
who  ever  washed. 

So  much  for  that  point. 

Next,  take  the  question  of  germs  and  bacilli. 
Don't  be  scared  of  them.  That's  all. 
That's  the  whole  thing,  and  if  you  once 
get  on  to  that  you  never  need  to  worry 
again. 

If  you  see  a  bacilli,  walk  right  up  to  it,  and 
look  it  in  the  eye.  If  one  flies  into  your 
room,  strike  at  it  with  your  hat  or  with  a 
towel.  Hit  it  as  hard  as  you  can  between 
the  neck  and  the  thorax.  It  will  soon  get  sick 
of  that. 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  bacilli  is  perfectly 
45 


Literary  Lapses 


quiet  and  harmless  if  you  are  not  afraid  of  it. 
Speak  to  it.  Call  out  to  it  to  "lie  down."  It 
will  understand.  I  had  a  bacilli  once,  called 
Fido,  that  would  come  and  lie  at  my  feet  while 
I  was  working.  I  never  knew  a  more  affec- 
tionate companion,  and  when  it  was  run  over 
by  an  automobile,  I  buried  it  in  the  garden 
with  genuine  sorrow. 

(I  admit  this  is  an  exaggeration.  I  don't 
really  remember  its  name;  it  may  have  been 
Robert.) 

Understand  that  it  is  only  a  fad  of  modern 
medicine  to  say  that  cholera  and  typhoid  and 
diphtheria  are  caused  by  bacilli  and  germs; 
nonsense.  Cholera  is  caused  by  a  frightful  pain 
in  the  stomach,  and  diphtheria  is  caused  by 
trying  to  cure  a  sore  throat. 

Now  take  the  question  of  food. 

Eat  what  you  want.  Eat  lots  of  it.  Yes,  eat 
too  much  of  it.  Eat  till  you  can  just  stagger 
across  the  room  with  it  and  prop  it  up  against 
a  sofa  cushion.  Eat  everything  that  you  like 
until  you  can't  eat  any  more.  The  only  test 
is,  can  you  pay  for  it?  If  you  can't  pay  for  it, 
don't  eat  it.  And  listen — don't  worry  as  to 
whether  your  food  contains  starch,  or  albumen, 
or  gluten,  or  nitrogen.  If  you  are  a  damn 

46 


How  to  Live  to  Be  200 


fool  enough  to  want  these  things,  go  and  buy 
them  and  eat  all  you  want  of  them.  Go  to  a 
laundry  and  get  a  bag  of  starch,  and  eat  your 
fill  of  it.  Eat  it,  and  take  a  good  long  drink  of 
glue  after  it,  and  a  spoonful  of  Portland 
cement.  That  will  gluten  you,  good  and  solid. 

If  you  like  nitrogen,  go  and  get  a  druggist 
to  give  you  a  canful  of  it  at  the  soda  counter, 
and  let  you  sip  it  with  a  straw.  Only  don't 
think  that  you  can  mix  all  these  things  up  with 
your  food.  There  isn't  any  nitrogen  or  phos- 
phorus or  albumen  in  ordinary  things  to  eat. 
In  any  decent  household  all  that  sort  of  stuff 
is  washed  out  in  the  kitchen  sink  before  the 
food  is  put  on  the  table. 

And  just  one  word  about  fresh  air  and 
exercise.  Don't  bother  with  either  of  them. 
Get  your  room  full  of  good  air,  then  shut  up 
the  windows  and  keep  it.  It  will  keep  for 
years.  Anyway,  don't  keep  using  your  lungs 
all  the  time.  Let  them  rest.  As  for  exercise, 
if  you  have  to  take  it,  take  it  and  put  up  with 
it.  But  as  long  as  you  have  the  price  of  a  hack 
and  can  hire  other  people  to  play  baseball  for 
you  and  run  races  and  do  gymnastics  when 
you  sit  in  the  shade  and  smoke  and  watch 
them — great  heavens,  what  more  do  you  want? 

47 


How  to  Avoid  Getting  Married 

SOME  years  ago,  when  I  was  the 
Editor  of  a  Correspondence  Column, 
I  used  to  receive  heart-broken  letters 
from  young  men  asking  for  advice 
and  sympathy.  They  found  themselves  the 
object  of  marked  attentions  from  girls  which 
they  scarcely  knew  how  to  deal  with.  They 
did  not  wish  to  give  pain  or  to  seem  indifferent 
to  a  love  which  they  felt  was  as  ardent  as  it  was 
disinterested,  and  yet  they  felt  that  they  could 
not  bestow  their  hands  where  their  hearts  had 
not  spoken.  They  wrote  to  me  fully  and 
frankly,  and  as  one  soul  might  write  to  another 
for  relief.  I  accepted  their  confidences  as 
under  the  pledge  of  a  secrecy,  never  divulging 
their  disclosures  beyond  the  circulation  of  my 
newspapers,  or  giving  any  hint  of  their 
identity  other  than  printing  their  names  and 
addresses  and  their  letters  in  full.  But  I 
may  perhaps  without  dishonour  reproduce  one 
of  these  letters,  and  my  answer  to  it,  inasmuch 
as  the  date  is  now  months  ago,  and  the 
softening  hand  of  Time  has  woven  its  roses — 

48 


How  to  Avoid  Getting  Married 

how  shall  I  put  it? — the  mellow  haze  of 
reminiscences  has — what  I  mean  is  that  the 
young  man  has  gone  back  to  work  and  is  all 
right  again. 

Here  then  is  a  letter  from  a  young  man 
whose  name  I  must  not  reveal,  but  whom  I 
will  designate  as  D.  F.,  and  whose  address 
I  must  not  divulge,  but  will  simply  indicate 
as  Q.  Street,  West. 

"DEAR  MR.  LEACOCK, 

"For  some  time  past  I  have  been  the 
recipient  of  very  marked  attentions  from  a 
young  lady.  She  has  been  calling  at  the  house 
almost  every  evening,  and  has  taken  me  out  in 
her  motor,  and  invited  me  to  concerts  and 
the  theatre.  On  these  latter  occasions  I  have 
insisted  on  her  taking  my  father  with  me,  and 
have  tried  as  far  as  possible  to  prevent  her 
saying  anything  to  me  which  would  be  unfit 
for  father  to  hear.  But  my  position  has 
become  a  very  difficult  one.  I  do  not 
think  it  right  to  accept  her  presents  when  I 
cannot  feel  that  my  heart  is  hers.  Yesterday 
she  sent  to  my  house  a  beautiful  bouquet  of 
American  Beauty  roses  addressed  to  me,  and 
a  magnificent  bunch  of  Timothy  Hay  for 

49 


Literary  Lapses 


father.  I  do  not  know  what  to  say.  Would 
it  be  right  for  father  to  keep  all  this 
valuable  hay?  I  have  confided  fully  in  father, 
and  we  have  discussed  the  question  of  presents. 
He  thinks  that  there  are  some  that  we  can  keep 
with  propriety,  and  others  that  a  sense  of 
delicacy  forbids  us  to  retain.  He  himself  is 
going  to  sort  out  the  presents  into  the  two 
classes.  He  thinks  that  as  far  as  he  can  see, 
the  Hay  is  in  class  B.  Meantime  I  write  to 
you,  as  I  understand  that  Miss  Laura  Jean 
Libby  and  Miss  Beatrix  Fairfax  are  on  their 
vacation,  and  in  any  case  a  friend  of  mine  who 
follows  their  writings  closely  tells  me  that  they 
are  always  full. 

"I  enclose  a  dollar,  because  I  do  not  think 
it  right  to  ask  you  to  give  all  your  valuable 
time  and  your  best  thought  without  giving  you 
back  what  it  is  worth." 

On  receipt  of  this  I  wrote  back  at  once  a 
private  and  confidential  letter  which  I  printed 
in  the  following  edition  of  the  paper. 

"MY  DEAR,  DEAR  BOY, 

"Your  letter  has  touched  me.  As 
soon  as  I  opened  it  and  saw  the  green  and  blue 
tint  of  the  dollar  bill  which  you  had  so  daintily 

so 


How  to  Avoid  Getting  Married 

and  prettily  folded  within  the  pages  of  your 
sweet  letter,  I  knew  that  the  note  was  from 
someone  that  I  could  learn  to  love,  if  our 
correspondence  were  to  continue  as  it  had 
begun.  I  took  the  dollar  from  your  letter 
and  kissed  and  fondled  it  a  dozen  times.  Dear 
unknown  boy !  I  shall  always  keep  that  dollar ! 
No  matter  how  much  I  may  need  it,  or  how 
many  necessaries,  yes,  absolute  necessities, 
of  life  I  may  IDC  wanting,  I  shall  always  keep 
that  dollar.  Do  you  understand,  dear?  I 
shall  keep  it.  I  shall  not  spend  it.  As  far 
as  the  use  of  it  goes,  it  will  be  just  as  if  you 
had  not  sent  it.  Even  if  you  were  to  send  me 
another  dollar,  I  should  still  keep  the  first  one, 
so  that  no  matter  how  many  you  sent,  the 
recollection  of  one  first  friendship  would  not 
be  contaminated  with  mercenary  considera- 
tions. When  I  say  dollar,  darling,  of  course 
an  express  order,  or  a  postal  note,  or  even 
stamps  would  be  all  the  same.  But  in  that 
case  do  not  address  me  in  care  of  this  office, 
as  I  should  not  like  to  think  of  your  pretty 
little  letters  lying  round  where  others  might 
handle  them. 

"But  now  I  must  stop  chatting  about  my- 
self, for  I  know  that  you  cannot  be  interested 

51 


Literary  Lapses 


in  a  simple  old  fogey  such  as  I  am.  Let  me 
talk  to  you  about  your  letter  and  about  the 
difficult  question  it  raises  for  all  marriageable 
young  men. 

"In  the  first  place,  let  me  tell  you  how  glad 
I  am  that  you  confide  in  your  father.  What- 
ever happens,  go  at  once  to  your  father,  put 
your  arms  about  his  neck,  and  have  a  good 
cry  together.  And  you  are  right,  too,  about 
presents.  It  needs  a  wiser  head  than  my  poor 
perplexed  boy  to  deal  with  them.  Take  them 
to  your  father  to  be  sorted,  or,  if  you  feel  that 
you  must  not  overtax  his  love,  address  them 
to  me  in  your  own  pretty  hand. 

"And  now  let  us  talk,  dear,  as  one  heart  to 
another.  Remember  always  that  if  a  girl  is 
to  have  your  heart  she  must  be  worthy  of 
you.  When  you  look  at  your  own  bright  inno- 
cent face  in  the  mirror,  resolve  that  you  will 
give  your  hand  to  no  girl  who  is  not  just  as 
innocent  as  you  are  and  no  brighter  than  your- 
self. So  that  you  must  first  find  out  how  inno- 
cent she  is.  Ask  her  quietly  and  frankly — 
remember,  dear,  that  the  days  of  false  modesty 
are  passing  away — whether  she  has  ever  been 
in  jail.  If  she  has  not  (and  if  you  have  not), 
then  you  know  that  you  are  dealing  with  a 

52 


How  to  Avoid  Getting  Married 

dear  confiding  girl  who  will  make  you  a  life 
mate.  Then  you  must  know,  too,  that  her 
mind  is  worthy  of  your  own.  So  many  men 
to-day  are  led  astray  by  the  merely  superficial 
graces  and  attractions  of  girls  who  in 
reality  possess  no  mental  equipment  at 
all.  Many  a  man  is  bitterly  disillusioned 
after  marriage  when  he  realises  that  his  wife 
cannot  solve  a  quadratic  equation,  and  that 
he  is  compelled  to  spend  all  his  days  with  a 
woman  who  does  not  know  that  x  squared 
plus  2xy  plus  y  squared  is  the  same  thing,  or, 
I  think  nearly  the  same  thing,  as  x  plus  y 
squared. 

"Nor  should  the  simple  domestic  virtues  be 
neglected.  If  a  girl  desires  to  woo  you,  before 
allowing  her  to  press  her  suit,  ask  her  if  she 
knows  how  to  press  yours.  If  she  can,  let 
her  woo;  if  not,  tell  her  to  whoa.  But  I  see 
I  have  written  quite  as  much  as  I  need  for 
this  column.  Won't  you  write  again,  just  as 
before,  dear  boy? 

"STEPHEN  LEACOCK." 


53 


How  to  Be  a  Doctor 


CERTAINLY  the  progress  of  science 
is   a   wonderful  thing.      One    can't 
help   feeling  proud  of   it.      I  must 
admit  that  I  do.     Whenever  I  get 
talking   to    anyone — that   is,    to    anyone   who 
knows  even  less  about  it  than  I  do — about  the 
marvellous    development    of    electricity,     for 
instance,    I    feel    as    if    I    had   been    person- 
ally responsible   for  it.     As  for  the  linotype 
and  the  aeroplane  and  the  vacuum  house-clean- 
er, well,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  didn't  invent 
them    myself.     I    believe    that    all    generous- 
hearted  men   feel  just   the   same   way   about 
it. 

However,  that  is  not  the  point  I  am  intend- 
ing to  discuss.  What  I  want  to  speak  about  is 
the  progress  of  medicine.  There,  if  you 
like,  is  something  wonderful.  Any  lover  of 
humanity  (or  of  either  sex  of  it)  who  looks 
back  on  the  achievements  of  medical  science 
must  feel  his  heart  glow  and  his  right  ventricle 
expand  with  the  pericardiac  stimulus  of  a  per- 
missible pride. 

54 


How  to  Be  a  Doctor 


Just  think  of  it.  A  hundred  years  ago  there 
were  no  bacilli,  no  ptomaine  poisoning,  no 
diphtheria,  and  no  appendicitis.  Rabies  was  but 
little  known,  and  only  imperfectly  developed. 
All  of  these  we  owe  to  medical  science.  Even 
such  things  as  psoriasis  and  parotitis  and 
trypanosomiasis,  which  are  now  household 
names,  were  known  only  to  the  few,  and  were 
quite  beyond  the  reach  of  the  great  mass  of 
the  people. 

Or  consider  the  advance  of  the  science  on 
its  practical  side.  A  hundred  years  ago  it  used 
to  be  supposed  that  fever  could  be  cured  by 
the  letting  of  blood;  now  we  know  positively 
that  it  cannot.  Even  seventy  years  ago  it  was 
thought  that  fever  was  curable  by  the  admin- 
istration of  sedative  drugs;  now  we  know  that 
it  isn't.  For  the  matter  of  that,  as  recently 
as  thirty  years  ago,  doctors  thought  that  they 
could  heal  a  fever  by  means  of  low  diet  and 
the  application  of  ice;  now  they  are  absolutely 
certain  that  they  cannot.  This  instance  shows 
the  steady  progress  made  in  the  treatment  of 
fever.  But  there  has  been  the  same  cheering 
advance  all  along  the  line.  Take  rheumatism. 
A  few  generations  ago  people  with  rheumatism 
used  to  have  to  carry  round  potatoes  in  their 

55 


Literary  Lapses 


pockets  as  a  means  of  cure.  Now  the  doctors 
allow  them  to  carry  absolutely  anything  they 
like.  They  may  go  round  with  their  pockets 
full  of  water-melons  if  they  wish  to.  It  makes 
no  difference.  Or  take  the  treatment  of 
epilepsy.  It  used  to  be  supposed  that  the  first 
thing  to  do  in  sudden  attacks  of  this  kind 
was  to  unfasten  the  patient's  collar  and  let 
him  breathe;  at  present,  on  the  contrary, 
many  doctors  consider  it  better  to  button  up 
the  patient's  collar  and  let  him  choke. 

In  only  one  respect  has  there  been  a  decided 
lack  of  progress  in  the  domain  of  medicine, 
that  is  in  the  time  it  takes  to  become  a  quali- 
fied practitioner.  In  the  good  old  days  a  man 
was  turned  out  thoroughly  equipped  after  put- 
ting in  two  winter  sessions  at  a  college  and 
spending  his  summers  in  running  logs  for  a 
sawmill.  Some  of  the  students  were  turned 
out  even  sooner.  Nowadays  it  takes  anywhere 
from  five  to  eight  years  to  become  a  doctor. 
Of  course,  one  is  willing  to  grant  that  our 
young  men  are  growing  stupider  and  lazier 
every  year.  This  fact  will  be  corroborated 
at  once  by  any  man  over  fifty  years  of  age. 
But  even  when  this  is  said  it  seems  odd  that 
a  man  should  study  eight  years  now  to 

56 


How  to  Be  a  Doctor 


learn  what  he  used  to  acquire  in  eight 
months. 

However,  let  that  go.  The  point  I  want 
to  develop  is  that  the  modern  doctor's  busi- 
ness is  an  extremely  simple  one,  which  could 
be  acquired  in  about  two  weeks.  This  is  the 
way  it  is  done. 

The  patient  enters  the  consulting-room. 
"Doctor,"  he  says,  "I  have  a  bad  pain." 
"Where  is  it?"  "Here."  "Stand  up," 
says  the  doctor,  "and  put  your  arms  up  above 
your  head."  Then  the  doctor  goes  behind  the 
patient  and  strikes  him  a  powerful  blow  in  the 
back.  "Do  you  feel  that,"  he  says.  "I  do," 
says  the  patient.  Then  the  doctor  turns  sud- 
denly and  lets  him  have  a  left  hook  under  the 
heart.  "Can  you  feel  that,"  he  says 
viciously,  as  the  patient  falls  over  on  the  sofa 
in  a  heap.  "Get  up,"  says  the  doctor,  and 
counts  ten.  The  patient  rises.  The  doctor 
looks  him  over  very  carefully  without  speak- 
ing, and  then  suddenly  fetches  him  a  blow  in 
the  stomach  that  doubles  him  up  speechless. 
The  doctor  walks  over  to  the  window  and 
reads  the  morning  paper  for  a  while.  Pre- 
sently he  turns  and  begins  to  mutter  more  to 
himself  than  the  patient.  "Hum!"  he  says, 

57 


Literary  Lapses 


him  and  sending  them  mysteriously  away  to 
be  analysed.  He  cuts  off  a  lock  of  the  patient's 
hair,  marks  it,  "Mr.  Smith's  Hair,  October, 
1910."  Then  he  clips  off  the  lower  part  of 
the  ear,  and  wraps  it  in  paper,  and  labels  it, 
"Part  of  Mr.  Smith's  Ear,  October,  1910." 
Then  he  looks  the  patient  up  and  down,  with 
the  scissors  in  his  hand,  and  if  he  sees  any 
likely  part  of  him  he  clips  it  off  and  wraps  it 
up.  Now  this,  oddly  enough,  is  the  very  thing 
that  fills  the  patient  up  with  that  sense  of 
personal  importance  which  is  worth  paying  for. 
"Yes,"  says  the  bandaged  patient,  later  in  the 
day  to  a  group  of  friends  much  impressed, 
"the  doctor  thinks  there  may  be  a  slight 
anaesthesia  of  the  prognosis,  .but  he's  sent  my 
ear  to  New  York  and  my  appendix  to  Balti- 
more and  a  lock  of  my  hair  to  the  editors  of 
all  the  medical  journals,  and  meantime  I  am 
to  keep  very  quiet  and  not  exert  myself  beyond 
drinking  a  hot  Scotch  with  lemon  and 
nutmeg  every  half-hour."  With  that  he 
sinks  back  faintly  on  his  cushions,  luxuriously 
happy. 

And  yet,  isn't  it  funny? 

You  and  I  and  the  rest  of  us — even  if  we 
know  all  this — as  soon  as  we  have  a  pain 

60 


How  to  Be  a  Doctor 


within  us,  rush  for  a  doctor  as  fast  as  a  hack 
can  take  us.  Yes,  personally,  I  even  prefer 
an  ambulance  with  a  bell  on  it*  It's  more 
soothing. 


The  New  Food 


I   SEE   from  the  current  columns  of  the 
daily  press  that  "Professor  Plumb,  of 
the  University  of  Chicago,  has  just  in- 
vented a  highly  concentrated  form  of 
food.     All  the  essential  nutritive  elements  are 
put  together  in  the  form  of  pellets,  each  of 
which  contains  from  one  to  two  hundred  times 
as  much  nourishment  as  an  ounce  of  an  ordi- 
nary  article   of   diet.     These   pellets,   diluted 
with  water,  will  form  all  that  is  necessary  to 
support  life.  The  professor  looks  forward  con- 
fidently  to    revolutionising   the    present    food 
system." 

Now  this  kind  of  thing  may  be  all  very  well 
in  its  way,  but  it  is  going  to  have  its  drawbacks 
as  well.  In  the  bright  future  anticipated  by 
Professor  Plumb,  we  can  easily  imagine  such 
incidents  as  the  following: 

The  smiling  family  were  gathered  round  the 
hospitable  board.  The  table  was  plenteously 
laid  with  a  soup-plate  in  front  of  each  beaming 
child,  a  bucket  of  hot  water  before  the  radiant 
mother,  and  at  the  head  of  the  board  the 

62 


The  New  Food 


Christmas  dinner  of  the  happy  home,  warmly 
covered  by  a  thimble  and  resting  on  a  poker 
chip.  The  expectant  whispers  of  the  little  ones 
were  hushed  as  the  father,  rising  from  his 
chair,  lifted  the  thimble  and  disclosed  a  small 
pill  of  concentrated  nourishment  on  the  chip 
before  him.  Christmas  turkey,  cranberry 
sauce,  plum  pudding,  mince  pie — it  was  all 
there,  all  jammed  into  that  little  pill  and  only 
waiting  to  expand.  Then  the  father  with  deep 
reverence,  and  a  devout  eye  alternating  be- 
tween the  pill  and  heaven,  lifted  his  voice  in  a 
benediction. 

At  this  moment  there  was  an  agonised  cry 
from  the  mother. 

"Oh,  Henry,  quick!  Baby  has  snached  the 
pill!"  It  was  too  true.  Dear  little  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  the  golden-haired  baby  boy,  had 
grabbed  the  whole  Christmas  dinner  off  the 
poker  chip  and  bolted  it.  Three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  of  concentrated  nourishment 
passed  down  the  oesophagus  of  the  unthinking 
child. 

"Clap  him  on  the  back!"  cried  the  distracted 
mother.  "Give  him  water!" 

The  idea  was  fatal.  The  water  striking 
the  pill  caused  it  to  expand.  There  was  a  dull 

63 


The  New  Food 


I   SEE   from  the  current  columns  of  the 
daily  press  that  "Professor  Plumb,  of 
the  University  of  Chicago,  has  just  in- 
vented a  highly  concentrated  form  of 
food.     All  the  essential  nutritive  elements  are 
put  together  in  the  form  of  pellets,  each  of 
which  contains  from  one  to  two  hundred  times 
as  much  nourishment  as  an  ounce  of  an  ordi- 
nary  article   of   diet.     These   pellets,   diluted 
with  water,  will  form  all  that  is  necessary  to 
support  life.  The  professor  looks  forward  con- 
fidently  to    revolutionising    the    present    food 
system." 

Now  this  kind  of  thing  may  be  all  very  well 
in  its  way,  but  it  is  going  to  have  its  drawbacks 
as  well.  In  the  bright  future  anticipated  by 
Professor  Plumb,  we  can  easily  imagine  such 
incidents  as  the  following: 

The  smiling  family  were  gathered  round  the 
hospitable  board.  The  table  was  plenteously 
laid  with  a  soup-plate  in  front  of  each  beaming 
child,  a  bucket  of  hot  water  before  the  radiant 
mother,  and  at  the  head  of  the  board  the 

62 


The  New  Food 


Christmas  dinner  of  the  happy  home,  warmly 
covered  by  a  thimble  and  resting  on  a  poker 
chip.  The  expectant  whispers  of  the  little  ones 
were  hushed  as  the  father,  rising  from  his 
chair,  lifted  the  thimble  and  disclosed  a  small 
pill  of  concentrated  nourishment  on  the  chip 
before  him.  Christmas  turkey,  cranberry 
sauce,  plum  pudding,  mince  pie — it  was  all 
there,  all  jammed  into  that  little  pill  and  only 
waiting  to  expand.  Then  the  father  with  deep 
reverence,  and  a  devout  eye  alternating  be- 
tween the  pill  and  heaven,  lifted  his  voice  in  a 
benediction. 

At  this  moment  there  was  an  agonised  cry 
from  the  mother. 

"Oh,  Henry,  quick!  Baby  has  snached  the 
pill!"  It  was  too  true.  Dear  little  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  the  golden-haired  baby  boy,  had 
grabbed  the  whole  Christmas  dinner  off  the 
poker  chip  and  bolted  it.  Three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  of  concentrated  nourishment 
passed  down  the  oesophagus  of  the  unthinking 
child. 

"Clap  him  on  the  back!"  cried  the  distracted 
mother.  "Give  him  water!" 

The  idea  was  fatal.  The  water  striking 
the  pill  caused  it  to  expand.  There  was  a  dull 

63 


Literary  Lapses 


rumbling  sound  and  then,  with  an  awful  bang, 
Gustavus  Adolphus  exploded  into  fragments! 
And  when  they  gathered  the  little  corpse 
together,  the  baby  lips  were  parted  in  a  linger- 
ing smile  that  could  only  be  worn  by  a  child 
who  had  eaten  thirteen  Christmas  dinners. 


A  New  Pathology 


IT  has  long  been  vaguely  understood 
that  the  condition  of  a  man's  clothes 
has  a  certain  effect  upon  the  health  of 
both  body  and  mind.  The  well-known 
proverb,  "Clothes  make  the  man,"  has  its 
origin  in  a  general  recognition  of  the  powerful 
influence  of  the  habiliments  in  their  reaction 
upon  the  wearer.  The  same  truth  may  be  ob- 
served in  the  facts  of  everyday  life.  On  the 
one  hand  we  remark  the  bold  carriage  and 
mental  vigour  of  a  man  attired  in  a  new  suit 
of  clothes;  on  the  other  hand  we  note  the 
melancholy  features  of  him  who  is  conscious 
of  a  posterior  patch,  or  the  haunted  face  of 
one  suffering  from  internal  loss  of  buttons. 
But  while  common  observation  thus  gives  us  a 
certain  familiarity  with  a  few  leading  facts 
regarding  the  ailments  and  influence  of  clothes, 
no  attempt  has  as  yet  been  made  to  reduce  our 
knowledge  to  a  systematic  form.  At  the  same 
time  the  writer  feels  that  a  valuable  addition 
might  be  made  to  the  science  of  medicine  in 
this  direction.  The  numerous  diseases  which 

65 


Literary  Lapses 


are  caused  by  this  fatal  influence  should  receive 
a  scientific  analysis,  and  their  treatment  be  in- 
cluded among  the  principles  of  the  healing 
art.  The  diseases  of  the  clothes  may  roughly 
be  divided  into  medical  cases  and  surgical 
cases,  while  these  again  fall  into  classes  accord- 
ing to  the  particular  garment  through  which 
the  sufferer  is  attacked. 

MEDICAL  CASES 

Probably  no  article  of  apparel  is  so  liable  to 
a  diseased  condition  as  the  trousers.  It  may 
be  well,  therefore,  to  treat  first  those  maladies 
to  which  they  are  subject. 

/.  Contractio  Pantaluna,  or  Shortening 
of  the  Legs  of  the  Trousers,  an  extremely 
painful  malady  most  frequently  found  in  the 
growing  youth.  The  first  symptom  is  the 
appearance  of  a  yawning  space  (lacuna)  above 
the  boots,  accompanied  by  an  acute  sense  of 
humiliation  and  a  morbid  anticipation  of 
mockery.  The  application  of  treacle  to  the 
boots,  although  commonly  recommended,  may 
rightly  be  condemned  as  too  drastic  a  remedy. 
The  use  of  boots  reaching  to  the  knee,  to  be 
removed  only  at  night,  will  afford  immediate 

66 


A  New  Pathology 


relief.  In  connection  with  Contractio  is  often 
found — 

//.  Infiatlo  Genu,  or  Bagging  of  the  Knees 
of  the  Trousers,  a  disease  whose  symptoms  are 
similar  to  those  above.  The  patient  shows 
an  aversion  to  the  standing  posture,  and, 
in  acute  cases,  if  the  patient  be  compelled  to 
stand,  the  head  is  bent  and  the  eye  fixed  with 
painful  rigidity  upon  the  projecting  blade 
formed  at  the  knee  of  the  trousers. 

In  both  of  the  above  diseases  anything  that 
can  be  done  to  free  the  mind  of  the  patient 
from  a  morbid  sense  of  his  infirmity  will  do 
much  to  improve  the  general  tone  of  the 
system. 

///.  Oases,  or  Patches,  are  liable  to  break 
out  anywhere  on  the  trousers,  and  range  in 
degree  of  gravity  from  those  of  a  trifling 
nature  to  those  of  a  fatal  character.  The  most 
distressing  cases  are  those  where  the  patch 
assumes  a  different  colour  from  that  of  the 
trousers  (dissimilitas  coloris).  In  this  instance 
the  mind  of  the  patient  is  found  to  be  in  a 
sadly  aberrated  condition.  A  speedy  improve- 
ment may,  however,  be  effected  by  cheerful 
society,  books,  flowers,  and,  above  all,  by  a 
complete  change. 


Literary  Lapses 


IV.  The  overcoat  is  attacked  by  no  serious 
disorders,  except— 

Phosphorescentia,  or  Glistening,  a  malady 
which  indeed  may  often  be  observed  to  affect 
the  whole  system.  It  is  caused  by  decay  of 
tissue  from  old  age  and  is  generally  aggra- 
vated by  repeated  brushing.  A  peculiar 
feature  of  the  complaint  is  the  lack  of  veracity 
on  the  part  of  the  patient  in  reference  to  the 
cause  of  his  uneasiness.  Another  invariable 
symptom  is  his  aversion  to  outdoor  exercise; 
under  various  pretexts,  which  it  is  the  duty 
of  his  medical  adviser  firmly  to  combat,  he 
will  avoid  even  a  gentle  walk  in  the  streets. 

[V.  Of  the  waistcoat  science  recognises  but 
one  disease — 

Porriggia,  an  affliction  caused  by  repeated 
spilling  of  porridge.  It  is  generally  harmless, 
chiefly  owing  to  the  mental  indifference  of  the 
patient.  It  can  be  successfully  treated  by  re- 
peated fomentations  of  benzine. 

VI.  Mortificatio  Tilts,  or  Greenness  of  the 
Hat,  is  a  disease  often  found  in  connection 
with  Phosphorescentia  (mentioned  above),  and 
characterised  by  the  same  aversion  to  outdoor 
life. 

VII.  Sterilitas,  or  Loss  of  Fur,  is  another 

68 


A  New  Pathology 


disease  of  the  hat,  especially  prevalent  in 
winter.  It  is  not  accurately  known  whether 
this  is  caused  by  a  falling  out  of  the  fur  or  by 
a  cessation  of  growth.  In  all  diseases  of  the 
hat  the  mind  of  the  patient  is  greatly  de- 
pressed and  his  countenance  stamped  with  the 
deepest  gloom.  He  is  particularly  sensitive  in 
regard  to  questions  as  to  the  previous  history 
of  the  hat. 

Want  of  space  precludes  the  mention  of 
minor  diseases,  such  as  — 

Fill.  Odditus  Soccorum,  or  oddness  of  the 
socks,  a  thing  in  itself  trifling,  but  of  an 
alarming  nature  if  met  in  combination  with 
Contractio  Pantalunae.  Cases  are  found  where 
the  patient,  possibly  on  the  public  platform  or 
at  a  social  gathering,  is  seized  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  malady  so  suddenly  as  to 
render  medical  assistance  futile. 

SURGICAL  CASES 

It  is  impossible  to  mention  more  than  a  few 
of  the  most  typical  cases  of  diseases  of  this 
sort. 

/.  Explosio,  or  Loss  of  Buttons,  is  the  com- 
monest malady  demanding  surgical  treatment. 

69 


Literary  Lapses 


It  consists  of  a  succession  of  minor  fractures, 
possibly  internal,  which  at  first  excite  no  alarm. 
A  vague  sense  of  uneasiness  is  presently  felt, 
which  often  leads  the  patient  to  seek  relief  in 
the  string  habit — a  habit  which,  if  unduly  in- 
dulged in,  may  assume  the  proportions  of  a 
ruling  passion.  The  use  of  sealing-wax, 
while  admirable  as  a  temporary  remedy  for 
Explosio,  should  never  be  allowed  to  gain  a 
permanent  hold  upon  the  system.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  a  persistent  indulgence  in  the 
string  habit,  or  the  constant  use  of  sealing- 
wax,  will  result  in — 

//.  Fractura  Suspendorum,  or  Snapping  of 
the  Braces,  which  amounts  to  a  general  col- 
lapse of  the  system.  The  patient  is  usually 
seized  with  a  severe  attack  of  explosio,  fol- 
lowed by  a  sudden  sinking  feeling  and  sense  of 
loss.  A  sound  constitution  may  rally  from  the 
shock,  but  a  system  undermined  by  the  string 
habit  invariably  succumbs. 

///.  Sectura  Pantaluna,  or  Ripping  of  the 
Trousers,  is  generally  caused  by  sitting  upon 
warm  beeswax  or  leaning  against  a  hook. 
In  the  case  of  the  very  young  it  is  not  un- 
frequently  accompanied  by  a  distressing  sup- 
puration of  the  shirt.  This,  however,  is  not 


A  New  Pathology 


remarked  in  adults.  The  malady  is  rather 
mental  than  bodily,  the  mind  of  the  patient 
being  racked  by  a  keen  sense  of  indignity  and 
a  feeling  of  unworthiness.  The  only  treat- 
ment is  immediate  isolation,  with  a  careful 
stitching  of  the  affected  part. 

In  conclusion,  it  may  be  stated  that  at  the 
first  symptom  of  disease  the  patient  should 
not  hesitate  to  put  himself  in  the  hands  of  a 
professional  tailor.  In  so  brief  a  compass  as 
the  present  article  the  discussion  has  of  neces- 
sity been  rather  suggestive  than  exhaustive. 
Much  yet  remains  to  be  done,  and  the  subject 
opens  wide  to  the  inquiring  eye.  The  writer 
will,  however,  feel  amply  satisfied  if  this  brief 
outline  may  help  to  direct  the  attention  of 
medical  men  to  what  is  yet  an  unexplored 
field. 


The  Poet  Answered 


DEAR  SIR: 
In  answer  to  your  repeated  ques- 
tions and  requests  which  have  ap- 
peared for  some  years  past  in  the 
columns  of  the  rural  press,  I  beg  to  submit 
the    following   solutions    of   your   chief    diffi- 
culties : — 

Topic  I. — You  frequently  ask,  where  are 
the  friends  of  your  childhood,  and  urge  that 
they  shall  be  brought  back  to  you.  As  far 
as  I  am  able  to  learn,  those  of  your  friends 
who  are  not  in  jail  are  still  right  there  in 
your  native  village.  You  point  out  that 
they  were  wont  to  share  your  gambols.  If 
so,  you  are  certainly  entitled  to  have  theirs 
now. 

Topic  II. — You  have  taken  occasion  to 
say: 

"Give  me  not  silk,  nor  rich  attire, 
Nor  gold,  nor  jewels  rare." 

But,  my  dear  fellow,  this  is  preposterous.  Why, 
these  are  the  very  things  I  had  bought  for 

72 


The  Poet  Answered 


you.  If  you  won't  take  any  of  these,  I  shall 
have  to  give  you  factory  cotton  and  cord- 
wood. 

Topic  III. — You  also  ask,  "How  fares  my 
love  across  the  sea?"  Intermediate,  I  presume. 
She  would  hardly  travel  steerage. 

Topic  IV. — "Why  was  I  born?  Why  should 
I  breathe?"  Here  I  quite  agree  with  you.  I 
don't  think  you  ought  to  breathe. 

Topic  V. — You  demand  that  I  shall  show 
you  the  man  whose  soul  is  dead  and  then  mark 
him.  I  am  awfully  sorry;  the  man  was  around 
here  all  day  yesterday,  and  if  I  had  only  known 
I  could  easily  have  marked  him  so  that  we 
could  pick  him  out  again. 

Topic  VI. — I  notice  that  you  frequently 
say,  "Oh,  for  the  sky  of  your  native  land." 
Oh,  for  it,  by  all  means,  if  you  wish.  But 
remember  that  you  already  owe  for  a  great 
deal. 

Topic  VII. — On  more  than  one  occasion 
you  wish  to  be  informed,  "What  boots  it,  that 
you  idly  dream?"  Nothing  boots  it  at  present 
— a  fact,  sir,  which  ought  to  afford  you  the 
highest  gratification. 


73 


The  Force  of  Statistics 


1 


were  sitting  on  a  seat  of  the 
car,  immediately  in  front  of  me. 
I  was  consequently  able  to  hear  all 
that  they  were  saying.  They  were 
evidently  strangers  who  had  dropped  into  a 
conversation.  They  both  had  the  air  of  men 
who  considered  themselves  profoundly  inter- 
esting as  minds.  It  was  plain  that  each 
laboured  under  the  impression  that  he  was  a 
ripe  thinker. 

One  had  just  been  reading  a  book  which  lay 
in  his  lap. 

"I've  been  reading  some  very  interesting 
statistics,"  he  was  saying  to  the  other  thinker. 

"Ah,  statistics!"  said  the  other;  "wonder- 
ful things,  sir,  statistics;  very  fond  of  them 
myself." 

"I  find,  for  instance,"  the  first  man  went  on, 
"that  a  drop  of  water  is  filled  with  little 
.  .  .  with  little  ...  I  forget  just  what  you 
call  them  .  .  .  little — er — things,  every  cubic 
inch  containing — er — containing  ...  let  me 
see  ...  " 

74 


The  Force  of  Statistics 


"Say  a  million,"  said  the  other  thinker,  en- 
couragingly. 

"Yes,  a  million,  or  possibly  a  billion  M  .  . 
but  at  any  rate,  ever  so  many  of  them." 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  the  other.  "But 
really,  you  know  there  are  wonderful  things 
in  the  world.  Now,  coal  .  .  .  take  coal.  ..." 

"Very  good,"  said  his  friend,  "let  us  take 
coal,"  settling  back  in  his  seat  with  the  air  of 
an  intellect  about  to  feed  itself. 

"Do  you  know  that  every  ton  of  coal  burnt 
in  an  engine  will  drag  a  train  of  cars  as  long 
as  ...  I  forget  the  exact  length,  but  say  a 
train  of  cars  of  such  and  such  a  length,  and 
weighing,  say  so  much  .  .  .  from  .  .  .  from 
.  .  .  hum!  for  the  moment  the  exact  distance 
escapes  me  .  .  .  drag  it  from  ..." 

"From  here  to  the  moon,"  suggested  the 
other. 

"Ah,  very  likely;  yes,  from  here  to  the 
moon.  Wonderful,  isn't  it?" 

"But  the  most  stupendous  calculation  of  all, 
sir,  is  in  regard  to  the  distance  from  the  earth 
to  the  sun.  Positively,  sir,  a  cannon-ball — er — - 
fired  at  the  sun  ..." 

"Fired  at  the  sun,"  nodded  the  other,  ap- 
provingly, as  if  he  had  often  seen  it  done. 

75 


Literary  Lapses 


"And  travelling  at  the  rate  of  .  .  .  of  .  .  . " 

"Of  three  cents  a  mile,"  hinted  the  listener. 

"No,  no,  you  misunderstand  me, — but 
travelling  at  a  fearful  rate,  simply  fearful,  sir, 
would  take  a  hundred  million — no,  a  hundred 
billion — in  short  would  take  a  scandalously 
long  time  in  getting  there " 

At  this  point  I  could  stand  no  more.  I  in- 
terrupted—"Provided  it  were  fired  from  Phila- 
delphia," I  said,  and  passed  into  the  smoking- 
car. 


Men  Who  Have  Shaved  Me 

A  BARBER  is  by  nature  and  inclina- 
tion a  sport.  He  can  tell  you  at 
what  exact  hour  the  ball  game  of 
the  day  is  to  begin,  can  foretell  its 
issue  without  losing  a  stroke  of  the  razor,  and 
can  explain  the  points  of  inferiority  of  all  the 
players,  as  compared  with  better  men  that  he 
has  personally  seen  elsewhere,  with  the  nicety 
of  a  professional.  He  can  do  all  this,  and  then 
stuff  the  customer's  mouth  with  a  soap-brush, 
and  leave  him  while  he  goes  to  the  other  end 
of  the  shop  to  make  a  side  bet  with  one  of  the 
other  barbers  on  the  outcome  of  the  Autumn 
Handicap.  In  the  barber-shops  they  knew  the 
result  of  the  Jeffries-Johnson  prize-fight  long 
before  it  happened.  It  is  on  information  of 
this  kind  that  they  make  their  living.  The 
performance  of  shaving  is  only  incidental  to  it. 
Their  real  vocation  in  life  is  imparting  infor- 
mation. To  the  barber  the  outside  world  is 
made  up  of  customers,  who  are  to  be  thrown 
into  chairs,  strapped,  manacled,  gagged  with 
soap,  and  then  given  such  necessary  informa- 

77 


LAterary  Lapses 


tion  on  the  athletic  events  of  the  moment  as 
will  carry  them  through  the  business  hours  of 
the  day  without  open  disgrace. 

As  soon  as  the  barber  has  properly  filled 
up  the  customer  with  information  of  this  sort, 
he  rapidly  removes  his  whiskers  as  a  sign  that 
the  man  is  now  fit  to  talk  to,  and  lets  him  out 
of  the  chair. 

The  public  has  grown  to  understand  the 
situation.  Every  reasonable  business  man  is 
willing  to  sit  and  wait  half  an  hour  for  a  shave 
which  he  could  give  himself  in  three  minutes, 
because  he  knows  that  if  he  goes  down  town 
without  understanding  exactly  why  Chicago 
lost  two  games  straight  he  will  appear  an 
ignoramus. 

At  times,  of  course,  the  barber  prefers  to 
test  his  customer  with  a  question  or  two.  He 
gets  him  pinned  in  the  chair,  with  his  head 
well  back,  covers  the  customer's  face  with 
soap,  and  then  planting  his  knee  on  his  chest 
and  holding  his  hand  firmly  across  the  custo- 
mer's mouth,  to  prevent  all  utterance  and  to 
force  him  to  swallow  the  soap,  he  asks :  "Well, 
what  did  you  think  of  the  Detroit-St.  Louis 
game  yesterday?"  This  is  not  really  meant 
for  a  question  at  all.  It  is  only  equivalent  to 

78 


Men  Who  Have  Shaved  Me 

saying:  "Now,  you  poor  fool,  I'll  bet  you 
don't  know  anything  about  the  great  events 
of  your  country  at  all."  There  is  a  gurgle  in 
the  customer's  throat  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
answer,  and  his  eyes  are  seen  to  move  side- 
ways, but  the  barber  merely  thrusts  the  soap- 
brush  into  each  eye,  and  if  any  motion  still 
persists,  he  breathes  gin  and  peppermint  over 
the  face,  till  all  sign  of  life  is  extinct.  Then 
he  talks  the  game  over  in  detail  with  the 
barber  at  the  next  chair,  each  leaning  across  an 
inanimate  thing  extended  under  steaming 
towels  that  was  once  a  man. 

To  know  all  these  things  barbers  have  to  be 
highly  educated.  It  is  true  that  some  of  the 
greatest  barbers  that  have  ever  lived  have 
begun  as  uneducated,  illiterate  men,  and  by 
sheer  energy  and  indomitable  industry  have 
forced  their  way  to  the  front.  But  these  are 
exceptions.  To  succeed  nowadays  it  is  practi- 
cally necessary  to  be  a  college  graduate.  As 
the  courses  at  Harvard  and  Yale  have  been 
found  too  superficial,  there  are  now  established 
regular  Barbers'  Colleges,  where  a  bright 
young  man  can  learn  as  much  in  three  weeks  as 
he  would  be  likely  to  know  after  three  years  at 
Harvard.  The  courses  at  these  colleges  cover 

70 


Literary  Lapses 


such  things  as:  (i)  PHYSIOLOGY,  including 
Hair  and  its  Destruction,  The  Origin  and 
Growth  of  Whiskers,  Soap  in  its  Relation  to 
Eyesight;  (2)  CHEMISTRY,  including  lectures 
on  Florida  Water;  and  How  to  Make  it  out 
of  Sardine  Oil;  (3)  PRACTICAL  ANATOMY,  in- 
cluding The  Scalp  and  How  to  Lift  it,  The 
Ears  and  How  to  Remove  them,  and,  as  the 
Major  Course  for  advanced  students,  The 
Veins  of  the  Face  and  how  to  open  and  close 
them  at  will  by  the  use  of  alum. 

The  education  of  the  customer  is,  as  I  have 
said,  the  chief  part  of  the  barber's  vocation. 
But  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  incidental 
function  of  removing  his  whiskers  in  order  to 
mark  him  as  a  well-informed  man  is  also  of 
importance,  and  demands  long  practice  and 
great  natural  aptitude.  In  the  barbers'  shops 
of  modern  cities  shaving  has  been  brought  to 
a  high  degree  of  perfection.  A  good  barber 
is  not  content  to  remove  the  whiskers  of  his 
client  directly  and  immediately.  He  prefers 
to  cook  him  first.  He  does  this  by  immersing 
the  head  in  hot  water  and  covering  the  victim's 
face  with  steaming  towels  until  he  has  him 
boiled  to  a  nice  pink.  From  time  to  time  the 
barber  removes  the  towels  and  looks  at  the 

80 


Men  Who  Have  Shaved  Me 

face  to  see  if  it  is  yet  boiled  pink  enough  for 
his  satisfaction.  If  it  is  not,  he  replaces  the 
towels  again  and  jams  them  down  firmly  with 
his  hand  until  the  cooking  is  finished.  The 
final  result,  however,  amply  justifies  this 
trouble,  and  the  well-boiled  customer  only 
needs  the  addition  of  a  few  vegetables  on  the 
side  to  present  an  extremely  appetizing  ap- 
pearance. 

During  the  process  of  the  shave,  it  is  cus- 
tomary for  the  barber  to  apply  the  particular 
kind  of  mental  torture  known  as  the  third  de- 
gree. This  is  done  by  terrorising  the  patient 
as  to  the  very  evident  and  proximate  loss  of  all 
his  hair  and  whiskers,  which  the  barber  is 
enabled  by  his  experience  to  foretell.  "Your 
hair,"  he  says,  very  sadly  and  sympathetically, 
"is  all  falling  out.  Better  let  me  give  you  a 
shampoo?"  "No."  "Let  me  singe  your 
hair  to  close  up  the  follicles?"  "No."  "Let 
me  plug  up  the  ends  of  your  hair  with 
sealing-wax,  it's  the  only  thing  that  will 
save  it  for  you?"  "No."  "Let  me  rub  an 
egg  on  your  scalp?"  "No."  "Let  me  squirt 
a  lemon  on  your  eyebrows?"  "No." 

The  barber  sees  that  he  is  dealing  with  a 
81 


Literary  Lapses 


man  of  determination,  and  he  warms  to  his 
task.  He  bends  low  and  whispers  into  the 
prostrate  ear:  "You've  got  a  good  many  grey 
hairs  coming  in;  better  let  me  give  you  an  ap- 
plication of  Hairocene,  only  cost  you  half  a 
dollar?"  "No."  "Your  face,"  he  whispers 
again,  with  a  soft,  caressing  voice,  "is  all  cov- 
ered with  wrinkles;  better  let  me  rub  some  of 
this  Rejuvenator  into  the  face." 

This  process  is  continued  until  one  of  two 
things  happens.  Either  the  customer  is  ob- 
durate, and  staggers  to  his  feet  at  last  and 
gropes  his  way  out  of  the  shop  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  is  a  wrinkled,  prematurely  senile 
man,  whose  wicked  life  is  stamped  upon  his 
face,  and  whose  unstopped  hair-ends  and 
failing  follicles  menace  him  with  the  certainty 
of  complete  baldness  within  twenty-four 
hours — or  else,  as  in  nearly  all  instances,  he 
succumbs.  In  the  latter  case,  immediately  on 
his  saying  "yes"  there  is  a  shout  of  exultation 
from  the  barber,  a  roar  of  steaming  water, 
and  within  a  moment  two  barbers  have  grabbed 
him  by  the  feet  and  thrown  him  under  the 
tap,  and,  in  spite  of  his  struggles,  are  giving 
him  the  Hydro-magnetic  treatment.  When  he 
emerges  from  their  hands,  he  steps  out 

82 


Men  Who  Have  Shaved  Me 

of  the  shop  looking  as  if  he  had  been 
varnished. 

But  even  the  application  of  the  Hydro- 
magnetic  and  the  Rejuvenator  do  not  by  any 
means  exhaust  the  resources  of  the  up-to-date 
barber.  He  prefers  to  perform  on  the  cus- 
tomer a  whole  variety  of  subsidiary  services 
not  directly  connected  with  shaving,  but  car- 
ried on  during  the  process  of  the  shave. 

In  a  good,  up-to-date  shop,  while  one  man  is 
shaving  the  customer,  others  black  his  boots, 
brush  his  clothes,  darn  his  socks,  point  his 
nails,  enamel  his  teeth,  polish  his  eyes,  and 
alter  the  shape  of  any  of  his  joints  which  they 
think  unsightly.  During  this  operation  they 
often  stand  seven  or  eight  deep  round  a 
customer,  fighting  for  a  chance  to  get  at 
him. 

All  of  these  remarks  apply  to  barber-shops 
in  the  city,  and  not  to  country  places.  In  the 
country  there  is  only  one  barber  and  one 
customer  at  a  time.  The  thing  assumes  the 
aspect  of  a  straight-out,  rough-and-tumble, 
catch-as-catch-can  fight,  with  a  few  spectators 
sitting  round  the  shop  to  see  fair  play.  In  the 
city  they  can  shave  a  man  without  removing 
any  of  his  clothes.  But  in  the  country, 

9s 


Literary  Lapses 


where  the  customer  insists  on  getting  the  full 
value  for  his  money,  they  remove  the  collar 
and  necktie,  the  coat  and  the  waistcoat,  and, 
for  a  really  good  shave  and  hair-cut,  the 
customer  is  stripped  to  the  waist.  The  barber 
can  then  take  a  rush  at  him  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  and  drive  the  clippers  up  the 
full  length  of  the  spine,  so  as  to  come  at  the 
heavier  hair  on  the  back  of  the  head  with  the 
impact  of  a  lawn-mower  driven  into  long 
grass. 


Getting  the  Thread  of  It 


H 


AVE  you  ever  had  a  man  try  to 
explain  to  you  what  happened  in 
a  book  as  far  as  he  has  read?  It 
is  a  most  instructive  thing.  Sin- 
clair, the  man  who  shares  my  rooms  with  me, 
made  such  an  attempt  the  other  night.  I  had 
come  in  cold  and  tired  from  a  walk  and  found 
him  full  of  excitement,  with  a  bulky  magazine 
in  one  hand  and  a  paper-cutter  gripped  in  the 
other. 

"Say,  here's  a  grand  story,"  he  burst  out 
as  soon  as  I  came  in;  "it's  great!  most 
fascinating  thing  I  ever  read.  Wait  till  I  read 
you  some  of  it.  I'll  just  tell  you  what  has 
happened  up  to  where  I  am — you'll  easily  catch 
the  thread  of  it — and  then  we'll  finish  it  to- 
gether." 

I  wasn't  feeling  in  a  very  responsive  mood, 
but  I  saw  no  way  to  stop  him,  so  I  merely 
said,  "All  right,  throw  me  your  thread,  I'll 
catch  it." 

"Well,"  Sinclair  began  with  great  animation, 
"this  count  gets  this  letter  ..." 

85 


Literary  Lapses 


"Hold  on,"  I  interrupted,  "what  count  gets 
what  letter?" 

"Oh,  the  count  it's  about,  you  know.  He 
gets  this  letter  from  this  Porphirio  ..." 

"From  which  Porphirio?" 

"Why,  Porphirio  sent  the  letter,  don't  you 
see,  he  sent  it,"  Sinclair  exclaimed  a  little  im- 
patiently— "sent  it  through  Demonic  and  told 
him  to  watch  for  him  with  him,  and  kill  him 
when  he  got  him." 

"Oh,  see  here !"  I  broke  in,  "who  is  to  meet 
who,  and  who  is  to  get  stabbed?" 

"They're  going  to  stab  Demonio." 

"And  who  brought  the  letter?" 

"Demonio." 

"Well,  now,  Demonio  must  be  a  clam! 
What  did  he  bring  it  for?" 

"Oh,  but  he  don't  know  what's  in  it, 
that's  just  the  slick  part  of  it,"  and  Sinclair 
began  to  snigger  to  himself  at  the  thought 
of  it.  "You  see,  this  Carlo  Carlotti  the 
Condottiere  ..." 

"Stop  right  there,"  I  said.  "What's  a 
Condottiere?" 

"It's  a  sort  of  brigand.  He,  you  under- 
stand, was  in  league  with  this  Fra  Fralic- 
colo  ..." 

86 


Getting  the  Thread  of  It 


A  suspicion  flashed  across  my  mind.  "Look 
here,*'  I  said  firmly,  "if  the  scene  of  this  story 
is  laid  in  the  Highlands,  I  refuse  to  listen  to 
it.  Call  it  off." 

"No,  no,"  Sinclair  answered  quickly,  "that's 
all  right.  It's  laid  in  Italy  .  .  .  time  of  Pius 
the  something.  He  comes  in — say,  but  he's 
great!  so  darned  crafty.  It's  him,  you  know, 
that  persuades  this  Franciscan  ..." 

"Pause,"  I  said,  "what  Franciscan?" 

"Fra  Fraliccolo,  of  course,"  Sinclair  said 
snappishly.  "You  see,  Pio  tries  to  .  .  ." 

"Whoa!"  I  said,  "who  is  Pio?" 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,  Pio  is  Italian,  it's  short 
for  Pius.  He  tries  to  get  Fra  Fraliccolo  and 
Carlo  Carlotti  the  Condottiere  to  steal  the 
document  from  ...  let  me  see,  what  was  he 
called?"  .  .  .  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  from  the  Dog 
of  Venice,  so  that  ...  or  ...  no,  hang  it, 
you  put  me  out,  that's  all  wrong.  It's  the 
other  way  round.  Pio  wasn't  clever  at  all; 
he's  a  regular  darned  fool.  It's  the  Dog  that's 
crafty.  By  Jove,  he's  fine,"  Sinclair  went  on, 
warming  up  to  enthusiasm  again,  "he  just 
does  anything  he  wants.  He  makes  this 
Demonio  (Demonio  is  one  of  those  hirelings, 
you  know,  he's  the  tool  of  the  Dog)  .  .  . 

87 


Literary  Lapses 


makes  him  steal  the  document  off  Porphirio, 
and  .  .  ." 

"But  how  does  he  get  him  to  do  that?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  the  Dog  has  Demonio  pretty  well 
under  his  thumb,  so  he  makes  Demonio  scheme 
round  till  he  gets  old  Pio — er — gets  him 
under  his  thumb,  and  then,  of  course,  Pio 
thinks  that  Porphirio — I  mean  he  thinks 
that  he  has  Porphirio — er — has  him  under  his 
thumb." 

"Half  a  minute,  Sinclair,"  I  said,  "who  did 
you  say  was  under  the  Dog's  thumb?" 

"Demonio." 

"Thanks.  I  was  mixed  in  the  thumbs.  Go 
on." 

"Well,  just  when  things  are  like  this  ..." 

"Like  what?" 

"Like  I  said." 

"All  right." 

"Who  should  turn  up  and  thwart  the  whole 
scheme,  but  this  Signorina  Tarara  in  her 
domino  ..." 

"Hully  Gee!"  I  said,  "you  make  my  head 
ache.  What  the  deuce  does  she  come  in  her 
domino  for?" 

"Why,  to  thwart  it." 
88 


Getting  the  Thread  of  It 


"To  thwart  what?" 

"Thwart  the  whole  darned  thing,"  Sinclair 
exclaimed  emphatically. 

"But  can't  she  thwart  it  without  her 
domino?" 

"I  should  think  not!  You  see,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  domino,  the  Dog  would  have 
spotted  her  quick  as  a  wink.  Only  when  he 
sees  her  in  the  domino  with  this  rose  in  her 
hair,  he  thinks  she  must  be  Lucia  dell'  Es- 
terolla." 

"Say,  he  fools  himself,  doesn't  he?  Who's 
this  last  girl?" 

"Lucia?  Oh,  she's  great!"  Sinclair  said. 
"She's  one  of  those  Southern  natures,  you 
know,  full  of — er — full  of  .  ..." 

"Full  of  fun,"  I  suggested. 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,  don't  make  fun  of  it! 
Well,  anyhow,  she's  sister,  you  understand,  to 
the  Contessa  Carantarata,  and  that's  why  Fra 
Fraliccolo,  or  ...  hold  on,  that's  not  it,  no, 
no,  she's  not  sister  to  anybody.  She's  cousin, 
that's  it;  or,  anyway,  she  thinks  she  is  cousin 
to  Fra  Fraliccolo  himself,  and  that's  why  Pio 
tries  to  stab  Fra  Fraliccolo." 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  assented,  "naturally  he 
would." 

89 


IMerary  Lapses 


"Ah,"  -Sinclair  said  hopefully,  getting  his 
paper-cutter  ready  to  cut  the  next  pages,  "you 
begin  to  get  the  thread  now,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  fine!"  I  said.  "The  people  in  it 
are  the  Dog  and  Pio,  and  Carlo  Carlotti  the 
Condottiere,  and  those  others  that  we  spoke 
of." 

"That's  right,"  Sinclair  said.  "Of  course, 
there  are  more  still  that  I  can  tell  you  about 
if.  .  ." 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  I  said,  "I'll  work  along 
with  those,  they're  a  pretty  representative 
crowd.  Then  Porphirio  is  under  Pio's  thumb, 
and  Pio  is  under  Demonio's  thumb,  and  the 
Dog  is  crafty,  and  Lucia  is  full  of  something 
all  the  time.  Oh,  I've  got  a  mighty  clear  idea 
of  it,"  I  concluded  bitterly. 

"Oh,  you've  got  it,"  Sinclair  said,  "I  knew 
you'd  like  it.  Now  we'll  go  on.  I'll  just  finish 
to  the  bottom  of  my  page  and  then  I'll  go  on 
aloud." 

He  ran  his  eyes  rapidly  over  the  lines  till  he 
came  to  the  bottom  of  the  page,  then  he  cut 
the  leaves  and  turned  over.  I  saw  his  eye  rest 
on  the  half-dozen  lines  that  confronted  him 
on  the  next  page  with  an  expression  of  utter 
consternation. 


Getting  the  Thread  of  It 


"Well,  I  will  be  cursed!"  he  said  at  length. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  said  gently,  with  a 
great  joy  at  my  heart. 

"This  infernal  thing's  a  serial,"  he  gasped, 
as  he  pointed  at  the  words,  "To  be  continued,"' 
"and  that's  all  there  is  in  this  number." 


Telling  His  Faults 


OH,  do,  Mr.  Sapling,"  said  the 
beautiful  girl  at  the  summer  hotel, 
"do  let  me  read  the  palm  of 
your  hand!  I  can  tell  you  all 
your  faults." 

Mr.  Sapling  gave  an  inarticulate  gurgle  and 
a  roseate  flush  swept  over  his  countenance  as 
he  surrendered  his  palm  to  the  grasp  of  the 
fair  enchantress. 

"Oh,  you're  just  full  of  faults,  just  full  of 
them,  Mr.  Sapling!"  she  cried. 

Mr.  Sapling  looked  it. 

"To  begin  with,"  said  the  beautiful  girl,  slow- 
ly and  reflectingly,  "you  are  dreadfully  cyni- 
cal: you  haidly  believe  in  anything  at  all,  and 
you've  utterly  no  faith  in  us  poor  women." 

The  feeble  smile  that  had  hitherto  kindled 
the  features  of  Mr.  Sapling  into  a  ray  of  chas- 
tened imbecility,  was  distorted  in  an  effort  at 
cynicism. 

"Then  your  next  fault  is  that  you  are  too  de- 
termined; much  too  determined.  When  once 

Q2 


Telling  His  Faults 


you  have  set  your  will  on  any  object,  you  crush 
every  obstacle  under  your  feet." 

Mr.  Sapling  looked  meekly  down  at  his  ten- 
nis shoes,  but  began  to  feel  calmer,  more  lifted 
up.  Perhaps  he  had  been  all  these  things  with- 
out knowing  it. 

"Then  you  are  cold  and  sarcastic." 

Mr.  Sapling  attempted  to  look  cold  and  sar- 
castic. He  succeeded  in  a  rude  leer. 

"And  you're  horribly  world-weary,  you  care 
for  nothing.  You  have  drained  philosophy  to 
the  dregs,  and  scoff  at  everything." 

Mr.  Sapling's  inner  feeling  was  that  from 
now  on  he  would  simply  scoff  and  scoff  and 
scoff. 

"Your  only  redeeming  quality  is  that  you  are 
generous.  You  have  tried  to  kill  even  this, 
but  cannot.  Yes,"  concluded  the  beautiful  girl, 
"those  are  your  faults,  generous  still,  but  cold, 
cynical,  and  relentless.  Good  night,  Mr.  Sap- 
ling." 

And  resisting  all  entreaties  the  beautiful  girl 
passed  from  the  verandah  of  the  hotel  and  van- 
ished. 

And  when  later  in  the  evening  the  brother 
of  the  beautiful  girl  borrowed  Mr.  Sapling's 
tennis  racket,  and  his  bicycle  for  a  fortnight, 

93 


Literary  Lapses 


and  the  father  of  the  beautiful  girl  got  Sapling 
to  endorse  his  note  for  a  couple  of  hundreds, 
and  her  uncle  Zephas  borrowed  his  bedroom 
candle  and  used  his  razor  to  cut  up  a  plug  of 
tobacco,  Mr.  Sapling  felt  proud  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  family. 


Winter  Pastimes 


IT  is   in  the   depth   of  winter,   when   the 
intense  cold  renders  it  desirable  to  stay 
at  home,  that  the  really  Pleasant  Family 
is  wont  to  serve  invitations  upon  a  few 
friends  to  spend  a  Quiet  Evening. 

It  is  at  these  gatherings  that  that  gay  thing, 
the  indoor  winter  game,  becomes  rampant.  It 
is  there  that  the  old  euchre  deck  and  the  staring 
domino  become  fair  and  beautiful  things;  that 
the  rattle  of  the  Loto  counter  rejoices  the  heart, 
that  the  old  riddle  feels  the  sap  stirring  in  its 
limbs  again,  and  the  amusing  spilikin  completes 
the  mental  ruin  of  the  jaded  guest.  Then  does 
the  Jolly  Maiden  Aunt  propound  the  query: 
What  is  the  difference  between  an  elephant  and 
a  silk  hat?  Or  declare  that  her  first  is  a  vowel, 
her  second  a  preposition,  and  her  third  an  archi- 
pelago. It  is  to  crown  such  a  quiet  evening, 
and  to  give  the  finishing  stroke  to  those  of  the 
visitors  who  have  not  escaped  early,  with  a 
fierce  purpose  of  getting  at  the  saloons  before 
they  have  time  to  close,  that  the  indoor  game 
or  family  reservoir  of  fun  is  dragged  from 

95 


IMerary  Lapses 


its  long  sleep.  It  is  spread  out  upon  the  table. 
Its  gaper  of  directions  is  unfolded.  Its  cards, 
its  counters,  its  pointers  and  its  markers  are 
distributed  around  the  table,  and  the  visitor 
forces  a  look  of  reckless  pleasure  upon  his 
face.  Then  the  "few  simple  directions"  are 
read  aloud  by  the  Jolly  Aunt,  instructing  each 
player  to  challenge  the  player  holding  the 
golden  letter  corresponding  to  the  digit  next  in 
order,  to  name  a  dead  author  beginning  with 
X,  failing  which  the  player  must  declare  him- 
self in  fault,  and  pay  the  forfeit  of  handing 
over  to  the  Jolly  Aunt  his  gold  watch  and  all 
his  money,  or  having  a  hot  plate  put  down  his 
neck. 

With  a  view  to  bringing  some  relief  to  the 
guests  at  entertainments  of  this  kind,  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  construct  one  or  two  little  winter 
pastimes  of  a  novel  character.  They  are  quite 
inexpensive,  and  as  they  need  no  background 
of  higher  arithmetic  or  ancient  history,  they 
are  within  reach  of  the  humblest  intellect. 
Here  is  one  of  them.  It  is  called  Indoor  Foot- 
ball, or  Football  without  a  Ball. 

In  this  game  any  number  of  players,  from 
fifteen  to  thirty,  seat  themselves  in  a  heap  on 
any  one  player,  usually  the  player  next  to  the 

06 


Winter  Pastimes 


dealer.  They  then  challenge  him  to  get  up, 
while  one  player  stands  with  a  stop-watch  in 
his  hand  and  counts  forty  seconds.  Should 
the  first  player  fail  to  rise  before  forty  seconds 
are  counted,  the  player  with  the  watch  de- 
clares him  suffocated.  This  is  called  a  "Down" 
and  counts  one.  The  player  who  was  the 
Down  is  then  leant  against  the  wall;  his 
wind  is  supposed  to  be  squeezed  out.  The 
player  called  the  referee  then  blows  a  whistle 
and  the  players  select  another  player  and  score 
a  down  off  him.  While  the  player  is  supposed 
to  be  down,  all  the  rest  must  remain  seated  as 
before,  and  not  rise  from  him  until  the  referee 
by  counting  forty  and  blowing  his  whistle  an- 
nounces that  in  his  opinion  the  other  player  is 
stifled.  He  is  then  leant  against  the  wall  beside 
the  first  player.  When  the  whistle  again  blows 
the  player  nearest  the  referee  strikes  him  be- 
hind the  right  ear.  This  is  a  "Touch,"  and 
counts  two. 

It  is  impossible,  of  course,  to  give  all  the 
rules  in  detail.  I  might  add,  however,  that 
while  it  counts  two  to  strike  the  referee,  to 
kick  him  counts  three.  To  break  his  arm  or 
leg  counts  four,  and  to  kill  him  outright  is 
called  Grand  Slam  and  counts  one  game. 

97 


Literary  Lapses 


Here  is  another  little  thing  that  I  have 
worked  out,  which  is  superior  to  parlour  games 
in  that  it  combines  their  intense  excitement  with 
sound  out-of-door  exercise. 

It  is  easily  comprehended,  and  can  be  played 
by  any  number  of  players,  old  and  young.  It 
requires  no  other  apparatus  than  a  trolley  car 
of  the  ordinary  type,  a  mile  or  two  of  track,  and 
a  few  thousand  volts  of  electricity.  It  is 
called : 

The  Suburban  Trolley  Car 
A  Holiday  Game  for  Old  and  Young. 

The  chief  part  in  the  game  is  taken  by  two 
players  who  station  themselves  one  at  each  end 
of  the  car,  and  who  adopt  some  distinctive  cos- 
tumes to  indicate  that  they  are  "it."  The 
other  players  occupy  the  body  of  the  car,  or 
take  up  their  position  at  intervals  along  the 
track. 

The  object  of  each  player  should  be  to  enter 
the  car  as  stealthily  as  possible  in  such  a  way 
as  to  escape  the  notice  of  the  players  in  dis- 
tinctive dress.  Should  he  fail  to  do  this  he 
must  pay  the  philopena  or  forfeit.  Of  these 
there  are  two:  philopena  No.  i,  the  payment 
of  five  cents,  and  philopena  No.  2,  being 

98 


Winter  Pastimes 


thrown  off  the  car  by  the  neck.  Each  player 
may  elect  which  philopena  he  will  pay.  Any 
player  who  escapes  paying  the  philopena  scores 
one. 

The  players  who  are  in  the  car  may  elect 
to  adopt  a  standing  attitude,  or  to  seat  them- 
selves, but  no  player  may  seat  himself  in  the 
lap  of  another  without  the  second  player's  con- 
sent. The  object  of  those  who  elect  to  remain 
standing  is  to  place  their  feet  upon  the  toes  of 
those  who  sit;  when  they  do  this  they  score. 
The  object  of  those  who  elect  to  sit  is  to  elude 
the  feet  of  the  standing  players.  Much  merri- 
ment is  thus  occasioned. 

The  player  in  distinctive  costume  at  the  front 
of  the  car  controls  a  crank,  by  means  of  which 
he  is  enabled  to  bring  the  car  to  a  sudden  stop, 
or  to  cause  it  to  plunge  violently  forward.  His 
aim  in  so  doing  is  to  cause  all  the  standing 
players  to  fall  over  backward.  Every  time 
he  does  this  he  scores.  For  this  purpose  he 
is  generally  in  collusion  with  the  other  player 
in  distinctive  costume,  whose  business  it  is  to 
let  him  know  by  a  series  of  bells  and  signals 
when  the  players  are  not  looking,  and  can  be 
easily  thrown  down.  A  sharp  fall  of  this  sort 
gives  rise  to  no  end  of  banter  and  good-natured 

90 


Literary  Lapses 


drollery,  directed  against  the  two  players  who 
are  "it." 

Should  a  player  who  is  thus  thrown  back- 
ward save  himself  from  falling  by  sitting  down 
in  the  lap  of  a  female  player,  he  scores  one. 
Any  player  who  scores  in  this  manner  is  en- 
titled to  remain  seated  while  he  may  count  six, 
after  which  he  must  remove  himself  or  pay 
philopena  No.  2. 

Should  the  player  who  controls  the  crank 
perceive  a  player  upon  the  street  desirous  of 
joining  in  the  game  by  entering  the  car,  his 
object  should  be:  primo,  to  run  over  him  and 
kill  him;  secundo,  to  kill  him  by  any  other 
means  in  his  power;  tertio,  to  let  him  into  the 
car,  but  to  exact  the  usual  philopena. 

Should  a  player,  in  thus  attempting  to  get 
on  the  car  from  without,  become  entangled  in 
the  machinery,  the  player  controlling  the  crank 
shouts  "huff!"  and  the  car  is  supposed  to  pass 
over  him.  All  within  the  car  score  one. 

A  fine  spice  of  the  ludicrous  may  be  added 
to  the  game  by  each  player  pretending  that 
he  has  a  destination  or  stopping-place, 
where  he  would  wish  to  alight.  It  now  be- 
comes the  aim  of  the  two  players  who  are 
"it"  to  carry  him  past  his  point.  A  player 
100 


Winter  Pastimes 


who  is  thus  carried  beyond  his  imaginary 
stopping-place  must  feign  a  violent  passion,  and 
imitate  angry  gesticulations.  He  may,  in  ad- 
dition, feign  a  great  age  or  a  painful  infirmity, 
which  will  be  found  to  occasion  the  most  con- 
vulsive fun  for  the  other  players  in  the 
game. 

These  are  the  main  outlines  of  this  most 
amusing  pastime.  Many  other  agreeable  fea- 
tures may,  of  course,  be  readily  introduced  by 
persons  of  humour  and  imagination. 


TOt 


Number  Fifty-Six 


WHAT  I  narrate  was  told  me  one 
winter's  evening  by  my  friend 
Ah-Yen  in  the  little  room  behind 
his  laundry.  Ah-Yen  is  a  quiet 
little  celestial  with  a  grave  and  thoughtful  face, 
and  that  melancholy  contemplative  disposition 
so  often  noticed  in  his  countrymen.  Be- 
tween myself  and  Ah-Yen  there  exists  a 
friendship  of  some  years'  standing,  and  we 
spend  many  a  long  evening  in  the  dimly  lighted 
room  behind  his  shop,  smoking  a  dreamy 
pipe  together  and  plunged  in  silent  meditation. 
I  am  chiefly  attracted  to  my  friend  by  the 
highly  imaginative  cast  of  his  mind,  which  is, 
I  believe,  a  trait  of  the  Eastern  character 
and  which  enables  him  to  forget  to  a  great 
extent  the  sordid  cares  of  his  calling  in  an 
inner  life  of  his  own  creation.  Of  the  keen, 
analytical  side  of  his  mind,  I  was  in  en- 
tire ignorance  until  the  evening  of  which  I 
write. 

The  room  where  we  sat  was  small  and  dingy, 
with  but  little  furniture  except  our  chairs  and 

102 


Number  Fifty- Six 


the  little  table  at  which  we  filled  and  arranged 
our  pipes,  and  was  lighted  only  by  a  tallow 
candle.  Thera  were  a  few  pictures  on  the 
walls,  for  the  most  part  rude  prints  cut  from 
the  columns  of  the  daily  press  and  pasted 
up  to  hide  the  bareness  of  the  room.  Only 
one  picture  was  in  any  way  noticeable,  a  por- 
trait admirably  executed  in  pen  and  ink.  The 
face  was  that  of  a  young  man,  a  very  beau- 
tiful face,  but  one  of  infinite  sadness.  I  had 
long  been  aware,  although  I  know  not  how, 
that  Ah-Yen  had  met  with  a  great  sorrow, 
and  had  in  some  way  connected  the  fact  with 
this  portrait.  I  had  always  refrained,  how- 
ever, from  asking  him  about  it,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  evening  in  question  that  I  knew  its 
history. 

We  had  been  smoking  in  silence  for  some 
time  when  Ah-Yen  spoke.  My  friend  is  a  man 
of  culture  and  wide  reading,  and  his  English 
is  consequently  perfect  in  its  construction;  his 
speech  is,  of  course,  marked  by  the  lingering 
liquid  accent  of  his  country  which  I  will  not 
attempt  to  reproduce. 

"I  see."  he  said,  "that  you  have  been  ex- 
amining the  portrait  of  my  unhappy  friend, 
Fifty-Six.  I  have  never  yet  told  you  of  my 
103 


Literary  Lapses 


bereavement,  but  as  to-night  is  the  anniversary 
of  his  death,  I  would  fain  speak  of  him  for  a 
while." 

Ah-Yen  paused;  I  lighted  my  pipe  afresh, 
and  nodded  to  him  to  show  that  I  was  listening. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  went  on,  "at  what  pre- 
cise time  Fifty-Six  came  into  my  life.  I  could 
indeed  find  it  out  by  examining  my  books,  but 
I  have  never  troubled  to  do  so.  Naturally 
I  took  no  more  interest  in  him  at  first  than 
in  any  other  of  my  customers — less,  perhaps, 
since  he  never  in  the  course  of  our  connection 
brought  his  clothes  to  me  himself  but  always 
sent  them  by  a  boy.  When  I  presently  per- 
ceived that  he  was  becoming  one  of  my  regular 
customers,  I  allotted  to  him  his  number,  Fifty- 
Six,  and  began  to  speculate  as  to  who  and 
what  he  was.  Before  long  I  had  reached  sev- 
eral conclusions  in  regard  to  my  unknown  client. 
The  quality  of  his  linen  showed  me  that,  if 
not  rich,  he  was  at  any  rate  fairly  well  off.  I 
could  see  that  he  was  a  young  man  of  regular 
Christian  life,  who  went  out  into  society  to 
a  certain  extent;  this  I  could  tell  from  his 
sending  the  same  number  of  articles  to  the 
laundry,  from  his  washing  always  coming  on 
Saturday  night,  and  from  the  fact  that 

104 


Number  Fifty-Six 


he  wore  a  dress  shirt  about  once  a  week. 
In  disposition  he  was  a  modest,  unassum- 
ing fellow,  for  his  collars  were  only  two  inches 
high." 

I  stared  at  Ah-Yen  in  some  amazement,  the 
recent  publications  of  a  favourite  novelist  had 
rendered  me  familiar  with  this  process  of  an- 
alytical reasoning,  but  I  was  prepared  for  no 
such  revelations  from  my  Eastern  friend. 

"When  I  first  knew  him,"  Ah-Yen  went  on, 
"Fifty-Six  was  a  student  at  the  university. 
This,  of  course,  I  did  not  know  for  some  time. 
I  inferred  it,  however,  in  the  course  of  time, 
from  his  absence  from  town  during  the  four 
summer  months,  and  from  the  fact  that  during 
the  time  of  the  university  examinations  the 
cuffs  of  his  shirts  came  to  me  covered  with 
dates,  formulas,  and  propositions  in  geometry. 
I  followed  him  with  no  little  interest  through 
his  university  career.  During  the  four  years 
which  it  lasted,  I  washed  for  him  every  week; 
my  regular  connection  with  him  and  the  in- 
sight which  my  observation  gave  me  into  the 
lovable  character  of  the  man,  deepened  my 
first  esteem  into  a  profound  affection  and  I 
became  most  anxious  for  his  success.  I 
helped  him  at  each  succeeding  examination,  as 

105 


Literary  Lapses 


far  as  lay  in  my  power,  by  starching  his  shirts 
half-way  to  the  elbow,  so  as  to  leave  him  as 
much  room  as  possible  for  annotations.  My 
anxiety  during  the  strain  of  his  final  examina- 
tion I  will  not  attempt  to  describe.  That 
Fifty-Six  was  undergoing  the  great  crisis  of 
his  academic  career,  I  could  infer  from  the 
state  of  his  handkerchiefs  which,  in  apparent 
unconsciousness,  he  used  as  pen-wipers  during 
the  final  test.  His  conduct  throughout  the  ex- 
amination bore  witness  to  the  moral  develop- 
ment which  had  taken  place  in  his  character 
during  his  career  as  an  undergraduate;  for  the 
notes  upon  his  cuffs  which  had  been  so  copious 
at  his  earlier  examinations  were  limited  now 
to  a  few  hints,  and  these  upon  topics  so  intri- 
cate as  to  defy  an  ordinary  memory.  It  was 
with  a  thrill  of  joy  that  I  at  last  received  in 
his  laundry  bundle  one  Saturday  early  in  June, 
a  ruffled  dress  shirt,  the  bosom  of  which  was 
thickly  spattered  with  the  spillings  of  the  wine- 
cup,  and  realised  that  Fifty-Six  had  banqueted 
as  a  Bachelor  of  Arts. 

"In  the  following  winter  the  habit  of  wip- 
ing his  pen  upon  his  handkerchief,   which  I 
had  remarked  during  his  final  examination,  be- 
came chronic  with  him,  and  I  knew  that  he 
106 


Number  Fifty-Six 


had  entered  upon  the  study  of  law.  He  worked 
hard  during  that  year,  and  dress  shirts  al- 
most disappeared  from  his  weekly  bundle.  It 
was  in  the  following  winter,  the  second  year 
of  his  legal  studies,  that  the  tragedy  of  his 
life  began.  I  became  aware  that  a  change  had 
come  over  his  laundry,  from  one,  or  at  most 
two  a  week,  his  dress  shirts  rose  to  four,  and 
silk  handkerchiefs  began  to  replace  his  linen 
ones.  It  dawned  upon  me  that  Fifty-Six  was 
abandoning  the  rigorous  tenor  of  his  student 
life  and  was  going  into  society.  I  presently 
perceived  something  more;  Fifty-Six  was  in 
love.  It  was  soon  impossible  to  doubt  it.  He 
was  wearing  seven  shirts  a  week;  linen  hand- 
kerchiefs disappeared  from  his  laundry;  his 
collars  rose  from  two  inches  to  two  and  a 
quarter,  and  finally  to  two  and  a  half.  I  have 
in  my  possession  one  of  his  laundry  lists  of 
that  period;  a  glance  at  it  will  show  the  scrup- 
ulous care  which  he  bestowed  upon  his  per- 
son. Well  do  I  remember  the  dawning  hopes 
of  those  days,  alternating  with  the  gloomiest 
despair.  Each  Saturday  I  opened  his  bundle 
with  a  trembling  eagerness  to  catch  the  first 
signs  of  a  return  of  his  love.  I  helped  my 
friend  in  every  way  that  I  could.  His  shirts 
107 


Literary  Lapses 


and  collars  were  masterpieces  of  my  art, 
though  my  hand  often  shook  with  agitation  as 
I  applied  the  starch.  She  was  a  brave  noble 
girl,  that  I  knew;  her  influence  was  elevat- 
ing the  whole  nature  of  Fifty-Six;  until  now 
he  had  had  in  his  possession  a  certain  num- 
ber of  detached  cuffs  and  false  shirt-fronts. 
These  he  discarded  now, — at  first  the  false 
shirt-fronts,  scorning  the  very  idea  of  fraud, 
and  after  a  time,  in  his  enthusiasm,  abandon- 
ing even  the  cuffs.  I  cannot  look  back  upon 
those  bright  happy  days  of  courtship  without 
a  sigh. 

"The  happiness  ot  Fifty-Six  seemed  to  enter 
into  and  fill  my  whole  life.  I  lived  but  from 
Saturday  to  Saturday.  The  appearance  of 
false  shirt-fronts  would  cast  me  to  the  lowest 
depths  of  despair;  their  absence  raised  me  to 
a  pinnacle  of  hope.  It  was  not  till  winter  soft- 
ened into  spring  that  Fifty-Six  nerved  himself 
to  learn  his  fate.  One  Saturday  he  sent  me  a 
new  white  waistcoat,  a  garment  which  had 
hitherto  been  shunned  by  his  modest  nature, 
to  prepare  for  his  use.  I  bestowed  upon  it 
all  the  resources  of  my  art;  I  read  his  pur- 
pose in  it.  On  the  Saturday  following  it  was 
returned  to  me  and,  with  tears  of  joy,  I  marked 
108 


Number  Fifty-Six 


where  a  warm  little  hand  had  rested  fondly 
on  the  right  shoulder,  and  knew  that  Fifty- 
Six  was  the  accepted  lover  of  his  sweet- 
heart." 

Ah-Yen  paused  and  sat  for  some  time  silent ; 
his  pipe  had  sputtered  out  and  lay  cold  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand;  his  eye  was  fixed  upon  the 
wall  where  the  light  and  shadows  shifted  in 
the  dull  flickering  of  the  candle.  At  last  he 
spoke  again: 

"I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  happy  days  that 
ensued — days  of  gaudy  summer  neckties  and 
white  waistcoats,  of  spotless  shirts  and  lofty 
collars  worn  but  a  single  day  by  the  fastidious 
lover.  Our  happiness  seemed  complete  and 
I  asked  no  more  from  fate.  Alas!  it  was  not 
destined  to  continue!  When  the  bright  days 
of  summer  were  fading  into  autumn,  I  was 
grieved  to  notice  an  occasional  quarrel — only 
four  shirts  instead  of  seven,  or  the  reappear- 
ance of  the  abandoned  cuffs  and  shirt-fronts. 
Reconciliations  followed,  with  tears  of  peni- 
tence upon  the  shoulder  of  the  white  waistcoat, 
and  the  seven  shirts  came  back.  But  the  quar- 
rels grew  more  frequent  and  there  came  at 
times  stormy  scenes  of  passionate  emotion  that 
left  a  track  of  broken  buttons  down  the  waist- 


Literary  Lapses 


coat.  The  shirts  went  slowly  down  to  three, 
then  fell  to  two,  and  the  collars  of  my  un- 
happy friend  subsided  to  an  inch  and  three- 
quarters.  In  vain  I  lavished  my  utmost  care 
upon  Fifty-Six.  It  seemed  to  my  tortured  mind 
that  the  gloss  upon  his  shirts  and  collars  would 
have  melted  a  heart  of  stone.  Alas !  my  every 
effort  at  reconciliation  seemed  to  fail.  An 
awful  month  passed;  the  false  fronts  and  de- 
tached cuffs  were  all  back  again;  the  unhappy 
lover  seemed  to  glory  in  their  perfidy.  At 
last,  one  gloomy  evening,  I  found  on  opening 
his  bundle  that  he  had  bought  a  stock  of  cellu- 
loids, and  my  heart  told  me  that  she  had  aban- 
doned him  for  ever.  Of  what  my  poor  friend 
suffered  at  this  time,  I  can  give  you  no  idea; 
suffice  it  to  say  that  he  passed  from  celluloid 
to  a  blue  flannel  shirt  and  from  blue  to  grey. 
The  sight  of  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  in  his 
wash  at  length  warned  me  that  his  disappointed 
love  had  unhinged  his  mind,  and  I  feared  the 
worst.  Then  came  an  agonising  interval  of 
three  weeks  during  which  he  sent  me  noth- 
ing, and  after  that  came  the  last  parcel  that 
I  ever  received  from  him — an  enormous  bundle 
that  seemed  to  contain  all  his  effects.  In  this, 
to  my  horror,  I  discovered  one  shirt  the  breast 

no 


Number  Fifty-Six 


of  which  was  stained  a  deep  crimson  with  his 
blood,  and  pierced  by  a  ragged  hole  that  showed 
where  a  bullet  had  singed  through  into  his 
heart. 

"A  fortnight  before,  I  remembered  having 
heard  the  street  boys  crying  the  news  of  an 
appalling  suicide,  and  I  know  now  that  it  must 
have  been  he.  After  the  first  shock  of  my 
grief  had  passed,  I  sought  to  keep  him  in  my 
memory  by  drawing  the  portrait  which  hangs 
beside  you.  I  have  some  skill  in  the  art,  and 
I  feel  assured  that  I  have  caught  the  expression 
of  his  face.  The  picture  is,  of  course,  an  ideal 
one,  for,  as  you  know,  I  never  saw  Fifty-Six." 

The  bell  on  the  door  of  the  outer  shop 
tinkled  at  the  entrance  of  a  customer.  Ah-Yen 
rose  with  that  air  of  quiet  resignation  that 
habitually  marked  his  demeanour,  and  remained 
for  some  time  in  the  shop.  When  he  returned 
he  seemed  in  no  mood  to  continue  speaking 
of  his  lost  friend.  I  left  him  soon  after  and 
walked  sorrowfully  home  to  my  lodgings.  On 
my  way  I  mused  much  upon  my  little  Eastern 
friend  and  the  sympathetic  grasp  of  his  im- 
agination. But  a  burden  lay  heavy  on  my  heart 
— something  I  would  fain  have  told  him  but 
which  I  could  not  bear  to  mention.  I  could 

in 


Literary  Lapses 


not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  shatter  the  airy 
castle  of  his  fancy.  For  my  life  has  been  se- 
cluded and  lonely  and  I  have  known  no  love 
like  that  of  my  ideal  friend.  Yet  I  have  a 
haunting  recollection  of  a  certain  huge  bundle 
of  washing  that  I  sent  to  him  about  a  year 
ago.  I  had  been  absent  from  town  for  three 
weeks  and  my  laundry  was  much  larger  than 
usual  in  consequence.  And  if  I  mistake  not 
there  was  in  the  bundle  a  tattered  shirt  that 
had  been  grievously  stained  by  the  breaking 
of  a  bottle  of  red  ink  in  my  portmanteau,  and 
burnt  in  one  place  where  an  ash  fell  from  my 
cigar  as  I  made  up  the  bundle.  Of  all  this 
I  cannot  feel  absolutely  certain,  yet  I  know  at 
least  that  until  a  year  ago,  when  I  transferred 
my  custom  to  a  more  modern  establishment, 
my  laundry  number  with  Ah-Yen  was  Fifty- 
Six. 


112 


Aristocratic  Education 


H 


OUSE  OF  LORDS,  Jan.  25,  1920. 
— The  House  of  Lords  com- 
menced to-day  in  Committee  the 
consideration  of  Clause  No.  52,000 
of  the  Education  Bill,  dealing  with  the  teach- 
ing of  Geometry  in  the  schools. 

The  Leader  of  the  Government  in  present- 
ing the  clause  urged  upon  their  Lordships  the 
need  of  conciliation.  The  Bill,  he  said,  had 
now  been  before  their  Lordships  for  sixteen 
years.  The  Government  had  made  every  con- 
cession. They  had  accepted  all  the  amend- 
ments of  their  Lordships  on  the  opposite  side 
in  regard  to  the  original  provisions  of  the  Bill. 
They  had  consented  also  to  insert  in  the  Bill  a 
detailed  programme  of  studies  of  which  the 
present  clause,  enunciating  the  fifth  proposi- 
tion of  Euclid,  was  a  part.  He  would  there- 
fore ask  their  Lordships  to  accept  the  clause 
drafted  as  follows: 

"The    angles    at   the   base    of   an    isosceles 
triangle  are  equal,  and  if  the  equal  sides  of  the 
"3 


Literary  Lapses 


triangle  are  produced,  the  exterior  angles  will 
also  be  equal." 

He  would  hasten  to  add  that  the  Govern- 
ment had  no  intention  of  producing  the  sides. 
Contingencies  might  arise  to  render  such  a 
course  necessary,  but  in  that  case  their  Lord- 
ships would  receive  an  early  intimation  of  the 
fact. 

The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  spoke  against 
the  clause.  He  considered  it,  in  its  present 
form,  too  secular.  He  should  wish  to  amend 
the  clause  so  as  to  make  it  read: 

"The  angles  at  the  base  of  an  isosceles  tri- 
angle are,  in  every  Christian  community,  equal, 
and  if  the  sides  be  produced  by  a  member  of 
a  Christian  congregation,  the  exterior  angles 
will  be  equal." 

He  was  aware,  he  continued,  that  the  angles 
at  the  base  of  an  isosceles  triangle  are  ex- 
tremely equal,  but  he  must  remind  the  Gov- 
ernment that  the  Church  had  been  aware  of 
this  for  several  years  past.  He  was  willing 
also  to  admit  that  the  opposite  sides  and  ends 
of  a  parallelogram  are  equal,  but  he  thought 
that  such  admission  should  be  coupled  with  a 
distinct  recognition  of  the  existence  of  a  Su- 
preme Being. 

114 


Aristocratic  Education 


The  Leader  of  the  Government  accepted 
His  Grace's  amendment  with  pleasure.  He 
considered  it  the  brightest  amendment  His 
Grace  had  made  that  week.  The  Government, 
he  said,  was  aware  of  the  intimate  relation  in 
which  His  Grace  stood  to  the  bottom  end  of 
a  parallelogram  and  was  prepared  to  respect 
it. 

Lord  Halifax  rose  to  offer  a  further  amend- 
ment. He  thought  the  present  case  was  one 
in  which  the  "four-fifths"  clause  ought  to  apply: 
he  should  wish  it  stated  that  the  angles  are 
equal  for  two  days  every  week,  except  in  the 
case  of  schools  where  four-fifths  of  the  par- 
ents are  conscientiously  opposed  to  the  use  of 
the  isosceles  triangle. 

The  Leader  of  the  Government  thought  the 
amendment  a  singularly  pleasing  one.  He  ac- 
cepted it  and  would  like  it  understood  that  the 
words  isosceles  triangle  were  not  meant  in  any 
offensive  sense. 

Lord  Rosebery  spoke  at  some  length.  He 
considered  the  clause  unfair  to  Scotland  where 
the  high  state  of  morality  rendered  education 
unnecessary.  Unless  an  amendment  in  this 
sense  was  accepted,  it  might  be  necessary  to 
reconsider  the  Act  of  Union  of  1707. 


Literary  Lapses 


The  Leader  of  the  Government  said  that 
Lord  Rosebery's  amendment  was  the  best  he 
had  heard  yet.  The  Government  accepted  it 
at  once.  They  were  willing  to  make  every  con- 
cession. They  would,  if  need  be,  reconsider 
the  Norman  Conquest. 

The  Duke  of  Devonshire  took  exception  to 
the  part  of  the  clause  relating  to  the  produc- 
tion of  the  sides.  He  did  not  think  the  country 
was  prepared  for  it.  It  was  unfair  to  the  pro- 
ducer. He  would  like  the  clause  altered  to 
read,  "if  the  sides  be  produced  in  the  home 
market." 

The  Leader  of  the  Government  accepted  with 
pleasure  His  Grace's  amendment.  He  consid- 
ered it  quite  sensible.  He  would  now,  as  it  was 
near  the  hour  of  rising,  present  the  clause  in  its 
revised  form.  He  hoped,  however,  that  their 
Lordships  would  find  time  to  think  out  some 
further  amendments  for  the  evening  sitting. 

The  clause  was  then  read. 

His  Grace  of  Canterbury  then  moved  that 
the  House,  in  all  humility,  adjourn  for  dinner. 


116 


The  Conjurer's  Revenge 


NOW,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the 
conjurer,   "having  shown  you  that 
the  cloth  is  absolutely  empty,  I  will 
proceed  to  take  from  it  a  bowl  of 
goldfish.     Presto !" 

All  around  the  hall  people  were  saying, 
"Oh,  how  wonderful!  How  does  he  do 
it?" 

But  the  Quick  Man  on  the  front  seat  said 
in  a  big  whisper  to  the  people  near  him,  "He — 
had — it — up — his — sleeve." 

Then  the  people  nodded  brightly  at  the 
Quick  Man  and  said,  "Oh,  of  course";  and 
everybody  whispered  round  the  hall,  "He — 
had — it — up — his — sleeve.' ' 

"My  next  trick,"  said  the  conjurer,  "is  the 
famous  Hindostanee  rings.  You  will  notice 
that  the  rings  are  apparently  separate;  at  a 
blow  they  all  join  (clang,  clang,  clang)  — 
Presto!" 

There  was  a  general  buzz  of  stupefaction  till 
the  Quick  Man  was  heard  to  whisper,  "He — 

117 


Literary  Lapses 


must — have — had — another — lot — up —  his  — 
sleeve." 

Again  everybody  nodded  and  whispered, 
"The — rings — were — up — his — sleeve." 

The  brow  of  the  conjurer  was  clouded  with  a 
gathering  frown. 

"I  will  now,"  he  continued,  "show  you  a 
most  amusing  trick  by  which  I  am  enabled  to 
take  any  number  of  eggs  from  a  hat.  Will 
some  gentleman  kindly  lend  me  his  hat?  Ah, 
thank  you — Presto !" 

He  extracted  seventeen  eggs,  and  for  thirty- 
five  seconds  the  audience  began  to  think  that 
he  was  wonderful.  Then  the  Quick  Man  whis- 
pered along  the  front  bench,  "He — has — a — 
hen — up — his — sleeve,"  and  all  the  people 
whispered  it  on.  "He — has — a — lot — of — 
hens — up — his — sleeve." 

The  egg  trick  was  ruined. 

It  went  on  like  that  all  through.  It  tran- 
spired from  the  whispers  of  the  Quick  Man 
that  the  conjurer  must  have  concealed  up  his 
sleeve,  in  addition  to  the  rings,  hens,  and  fish, 
several  packs  of  cards,  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  doll's 
cradle,  a  live  guinea-pig,  a  fifty-cent  piece,  and 
a  rocking-chair. 

The  reputation  of  the  conjurer  was  rapidly 
118 


The  Conjurer's  Revenge 


sinking  below  zero.  At  the  close  of  the  evening 
he  rallied  for  a  final  effort. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  will  pre- 
sent to  you,  in  conclusion,  the  famous  Japanese 
trick  recently  invented  by  the  natives  of  Tipper- 
ary.  Will  you,  sir,"  he  continued,  turning 
toward  the  Quick  Man,  "will  you  kindly  hand 
me  your  gold  watch?" 

It  was  passed  to  him. 

"Have  I  your  permission  to  put  it  into  this 
mortar  and  pound  it  to  pieces?"  he  asked  sav- 
agely. 

The  Quick  Man  nodded  and  smiled. 

The  conjurer  threw  the  watch  into  the  mor- 
tar and  grasped  a  sledge  hammer  from  the 
table.  There  was  a  sound  of  violent  smashing. 
"He's — slipped — it — up — his — sleeve,"  whis- 
pered the  Quick  Man. 

"Now,  sir,"  continued  the  conjurer,  "will 
you  allow  me  to  take  your  handkerchief  and 
punch  holes  in  it?  Thank  you.  You  see,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  there  is  no  deception,  the  holes 
are  visible  to  the  eye." 

The  face  of  the  Quick  Man  beamed.  This 
time  the  real  mystery  of  the  thing  fascinated 
him. 

"And  now,  sir,  will  you  kindly  pass  me  your 
119 


Literary  Lapses 


silk  hat  and  allow  me  to  dance  on  it?  Thank 
you." 

The  conjurer  made  a  few  rapid  passes  with 
his  feet  and  exhibited  the  hat  crushed  beyond 
recognition. 

"And  will  you  now,  sir,  take  off  your  cellu- 
loid collar  and  permit  me  to  burn  it  in  the 
candle?  Thank  you,  sir.  And  will  you  allow 
me  to  smash  your  spectacles  for  you  with  my 
hammer?  Thank  you." 

By  this  time  the  features  of  the  Quick  Man 
were  assuming  a  puzzled  expression.  "This 
thing  beats  me,"  he  whispered,  "I  don't  see 
through  it  a  bit." 

There  was  a  great  hush  upon  the  audience. 
Then  the  conjurer  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height  and,  with  a  withering  look  at  the  Quick 
Man,  he  concluded: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  will  observe  that 
I  have,  with  this  gentlemen's  permission,  bro- 
ken his  watch,  burnt  his  collar,  smashed  his  spec- 
tacles, and  danced  on  his  hat.  If  he  will  give 
me  the  further  permission  to  paint  green 
stripes  on  his  overcoat,  or  to  tie  his  suspenders 
in  a  knot,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  entertain 
you.  If  not,  the  performance  is  at  an 
end." 


I2O 


The  Conjurer's  Revenge 


And  amid  a  glorious  burst  of  music  from 
the  orchestra  the  curtain  fell,  and  the  audience 
dispersed,  convinced  that  there  are  some  tricks, 
at  any  rate,  that  are  not  done  up  the  conjur- 
er's sleeve. 


121 


Hints  to  Travellers 


1 


following  hints  and  observations 
have  occurred  to  me  during  a  recent 
trip  across  the  continent:  they  are 
written  in  no  spirit  of  complaint 
against  existing  railroad  methods,  but  merely 
in  the  hope  that  they  may  prove  useful  to  those 
who  travel,  like  myself,  in  a  spirit  of  meek, 
observant  ignorance. 

i.  Sleeping  in  a  Pullman  car  presents  some 
difficulties  to  the  novice.  Care  should  be  taken 
to  allay  all  sense  of  danger.  The  frequent 
whistling  of  the  engine  during  the  night  is  apt 
to  be  a  source  of  alarm.  Find  out,  therefore, 
before  travelling,  the  meaning  of  the  various 
whistles.  One  means  "station,"  two,  "rail- 
road crossing,"  and  so  on.  Five  whistles,  short 
and  rapid,  mean  sudden  danger.  When  you 
hear  whistles  in  the  night,  sit  up  smartly  in  your 
bunk  and  count  them.  Should  they  reach  five, 
draw  on  your  trousers  over  your  pyjamas  and 
leave  the  train  instantly.  As  a  further  pre- 
caution against  accident,  sleep  with  the  feet 
towards  the  engine  if  you  prefer  to  have  the 

122 


Hints  to  Travellers 


feet  crushed,  or  with  the  head  towards  the 
engine,  if  you  think  it  best  to  have  the  head 
crushed.  In  making  this  decision  try  to  be 
as  unselfish  as  possible.  If  indifferent,  sleep 
crosswise  with  the  head  hanging  over  into  the 
aisle. 

2.  I  have  devoted  some  thought  to  the 
proper  method  of  changing  trains.  The  sys- 
tem which  I  have  observed  to  be  the  most  popu- 
lar with  travellers  of  my  own  class,  is  some- 
thing as  follows :  Suppose  that  you  have  been 
told  on  leaving  New  York  that  you  are  to 
change  at  Kansas  City.  The  evening  before 
approaching  Kansas  City,  stop  the  conductor 
in  the  aisle  of  the  car  (you  can  do  this  best  by 
putting  out  your  foot  and  tripping  him),  and 
say  politely,  "Do  I  change  at  Kansas  City?" 
He  says  "Yes."  Very  good.  Don't  believe 
him.  On  going  into  the  dining-car  for  supper, 
take  a  negro  aside  and  put  it  to  him  as  a  per- 
sonal matter  between  a  white  man  and  a  black, 
whether  he  thinks  you  ought  to  change  at  Kan- 
sas City.  Don't  be  satisfied  with  this.  In  the 
course  of  the  evening  pass  through  the  entire 
train  from  time  to  time,  and  say  to  people  casu- 
ally, "Oh,  can  you  tell  me  if  I  change  at  Kan- 
sas City?"  Ask  the  conductor  about  it  a  few 

123 


Literary  Lapses 


more  times  in  the  evening:  a  repetition  of  the 
question  will  ensure  pleasant  relations  with  him. 
Before  falling  asleep  watch  for  his  passage 
and  ask  him  through  the  curtains  of  your  berth, 
"Oh,  by  the  way,  did  you  say  I  changed  at 
Kansas  City?"  If  he  refuses  to  stop,  hook 
him  by  the  neck  with  your  walking-stick,  and 
draw  him  gently  to  your  bedside.  In  the  morn- 
ing when  the  train  stops  and  a  man  calls,  "Kan- 
sas City!  All  change!"  approach  the  con- 
ductor again  and  say,  "Is  this  Kansas  City?" 
Don't  be  discouraged  at  his  answer.  Pick  your- 
self up  and  go  to  the  other  end  of  the  car  and 
say  to  the  brakesman,  "Do  you  know,  sir,  if  this 
is  Kansas  City?"  Don't  be  too  easily  con- 
vinced. Remember  that  both  brakesman 
and  conductor  may  be  in  collusion  to  deceive 
you.  Look  around,  therefore,  for  the  name  of 
the  station  on  the  signboard.  Having  found  it, 
alight  and  ask  the  first  man  you  see  if  this 
is  Kansas  City.  He  will  answer,  "Why, 
where  in  blank  are  your  blank  eyes?  Can't 
you  see  it  there,  plain  as  blank?"  When 
you  hear  language  of  this  sort,  ask  no  more. 
You  are  now  in  Kansas  and  this  is  Kansas 
City. 

3.  I  have  observed  that  it  is  now  the  prac- 
124 


Hints  to  Travellers 


tice  of  the  conductors  to  stick  bits  of  paper 
in  the  hats  of  the  passengers.  They  do  this, 
I  believe,  to  mark  which  ones  they  like  best. 
The  device  is  pretty,  and  adds  much  to  the 
scenic  appearance  of  the  car.  But  I  notice 
with  pain  that  the  system  is  fraught  with  much 
trouble  for  the  conductors.  The  task  of  crush- 
ing two  or  three  passengers  together,  in  order 
to  reach  over  them  and  stick  a  ticket  into  the 
chinks  of  a  silk  skull  cap  is  embarrassing  for 
a  conductor  of  refined  feelings.  It  would  be 
simpler  if  the  conductor  should  carry  a  small 
hammer  and  a  packet  of  shingle  nails  and  nail 
the  paid-up  passenger  to  the  back  of  the  seat. 
Or  better  still,  let  the  conductor  carry  a  small 
pot  of  paint  and  a  brush,  and  mark  the  pas- 
sengers in  such  a  way  that  he  cannot  easily 
mistake  them.  In  the  case  of  bald-headed  pas- 
sengers, the  hats  might  be  politely  removed 
and  red  crosses  painted  on  the  craniums. 
This  will  indicate  that  they  are  bald.  Through 
passengers  might  be  distinguished  by  a  com- 
plete coat  of  paint.  In  the  hands  of  a  man 
of  taste,  much  might  be  effected  by  a  little 
grouping  of  painted  passengers  and  the  lei- 
sure time  of  the  conductor  agreeably  occu- 
pied. 


lAterary  Lapses 


4.  I  have  observed  in  travelling  in  the  West 
that  the  irregularity  of  railroad  accidents  is  a 
fruitful  cause  of  complaint.  The  frequent  dis- 
appointment of  the  holders  of  accident  policy 
tickets  on  western  roads  is  leading  to  wide- 
spread protest.  Certainly  the  conditions  of 
travel  in  the  West  are  altering  rapidly  and  ac- 
cidents can  no  longer  be  relied  upon.  This  is 
deeply  to  be  regretted,  in  so  much  as,  apart 
from  accidents,  the  tickets  may  be  said  to  be 
practically  valueless. 


126 


A  Manual  of  Education 


1 


few  selections  below  are  offered 
as  a  specimen  page  of  a  little  book 
which  I  have  in  course  of  prepara- 
tion. 

Every  man  has  somewhere  in  the  back  of 
his  head  the  wreck  of  a  thing  which  he  calls 
his  education.  My  book  is  intended  to  em- 
body in  concise  form  these  remnants  of  early 
instruction. 

Educations  are  divided  into  splendid  educa- 
tions, thorough  classical  educations,  and  aver- 
age educations.  All  very  old  men  have  splendid 
educations ;  all  men  who  apparently  know  noth- 
ing else  have  thorough  classical  educations;  no- 
body has  an  average  education. 

An  education,  when  it  is  all  written  out  on 
foolscap,  covers  nearly  ten  sheets.  It  takes 
about  six  years  of  severe  college  training  to  ac- 
quire it.  Even  then  a  man  often  finds  that  he 
somehow  hasn't  got  his  education  just  where 
he  can  put  his  thumb  on  it.  When  my  little  book 
of  eight  or  ten  pages  has  appeared,  everybody 
may  carry  his  education  in  his  hip  pocket. 

127 


Literary  Lapses 


Those  who  have  not  had  the  advantage  of 
an  early  training  will  be  enabled,  by  a  few 
hours  of  conscientious  application,  to  put  them- 
selves on  an  equal  footing  with  the  most  schol- 
arly. 

The  selections  are  chosen  entirely  at  ran- 
dom. 

I. — REMAINS  OF  ASTRONOMY 

Astronomy  teaches  the  correct  use  of  the 
sun  and  the  planets.  These  may  be  put  on  a 
frame  of  little  sticks  and  turned  round.  This 
causes  the  tides.  Those  at  the  ends  of  the 
sticks  are  enormously  far  away.  From  time  to 
time  a  diligent  searching  of  the  sticks  reveals 
new  planets.  The  orbit  of  a  planet  is  the  dis- 
tance the  stick  goes  round  in  going  round.  As- 
tronomy is  intensely  interesting;  it  should  be 
done  at  night,  in  a  high  tower  in  Spitzbergen. 
This  is  to  avoid  the  astronomy  being  inter- 
rupted. A  really  good  astronomer  can  tell 
when  a  comet  is  coming  too  near  him  by  the 
warning  buzz  of  the  revolving  sticks. 

II. — REMAINS  OF  HISTORY 

Aztecs:     A  fabulous  race,  half  man,  half 
horse,   half  mound-builder.     'They  flourished 
128 


A  Manual  of  Education 


at  about  the  same  time  as  the  early  Cali- 
thumpians.  They  have  left  some  awfully  stu- 
pendous monuments  of  themselves  some- 
where. 

Life  of  Caesar:  A  famous  Roman  general, 
the  last  who  ever  landed  in  Britain  without 
being  stopped  at  the  custom  house.  On  re- 
turning to  his  Sabine  farm  (to  fetch  some- 
thing) ,  he  was  stabbed  by  Brutus,  and  died  with 
the  words  "Veni,  vidi,  tekel,  upharsim"  in  his 
throat.  The  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  strangu- 
lation. 

Life  of  Voltaire :    A  Frenchman ;  very  bitter. 

Life  of  Schopenhauer:  A  German;  very 
deep;  but  it  was  not 'really  noticeable  when  he 
sat  down. 

Life  of  Dante:  An  Italian;  the  first  to  in- 
troduce the  banana  and  the  class  of  street  organ 
known  as  "Dante's  Inferno." 


Peter  the  Great, 
Alfred  the  Great, 
Frederick  the  Great, 
John  the  Great, 
Tom  the  Great, 
Jim  the  Great, 
Jo  the  Great,  etc., 
etc, 


It  is  impossible  for  a  busy 
man  to  keep  these  apart.  They 
sought  a  living  as  kings  and 
apostles  and  pugilists  and  so  on. 


Literary  Lapses 


III. — REMAINS  OF  BOTANY 

Botany  is  the  art  of  plants.  Plants  are  di- 
vided into  trees,  flowers,  and  vegetables.  The 
true  botanist  knows  a  tree  as  soon  as  he  sees 
it.  He  learns  to  distinguish  it  from  a  vege- 
table by  merely  putting  his  ear  to  it. 

IV. — REMAINS  OF  NATURAL  SCIENCE 

Natural  Science  treats  of  motion  and  force. 
Many  of  its  teachings  remain  as  part  of  an  edu- 
cated man's  permanent  equipment  in  life. 

Such  are: 

(a)  The  harder  you   shovel  a  bicycle  the 
faster  it  will  go.     This  is  because  of  natural 
science. 

(b)  If  you  fall  from  a  high  tower,  you  fall 
quicker  and  quicker  and  quicker;  a  judicious 
selection  of  a  tower  will  ensure  any  rate  of 
speed. 

(c)  If  you  put  your  thumb  in  between  two 
cogs  it  will  go  on  and  on,  until  the  wheels  are 
arrested,   by  your   suspenders.      This   is   ma- 
chinery. 

130 


A  Manual  of  Education 


(d}  Electricity  is  of  two  kinds,  positive  and 
negative.  The  difference  is,  I  presume,  that 
one  kind  comes  a  little  more  expensive,  but  is 
more  durable ;  the  other  is  a  cheaper  thing,  but 
the  moths  get  into  it. 


Hoodoo  McFiggin's  Christmas 


1 


"\HIS  Santa  Claus  business  is  played 
out.  It's  a  sneaking,  underhand 
method,  and  the  sooner  it's  exposed 
the  better. 

For  a  parent  to  get  up  under  cover  of  the 
darkness  of  night  and  palm  off  a  ten-cent  neck- 
tie on  a  boy  who  had  been  expecting  a  ten-dollar 
watch,  and  then  say  that  an  angel  sent  it  to 
him,  is  low,  undeniably  low. 

I  had  a  good  opportunity  of  observing  how 
the  thing  worked  this  Christmas,  in  the  case 
of  young  Hoodoo  McFiggin,  the  son  and 
heir  of  the  McFiggins,  at  whose  house  I 
board. 

Hoodoo  McFiggin  is  a  good  boy — a  religious 
boy.  He  had  been  given  to  understand  that 
Santa  Claus  would  bring  nothing  to  his  father 
and  mother  because  grown-up  people  don't  get 
presents  from  the  angels.  So  he  saved  up  all 
his  pocket-money  and  bought  a  box  of  cigars 
for  his  father  and  a  seventy-five-cent  diamond 
brooch  for  his  mother.  His  own  fortunes 

132 


Hoodoo  McFiggin's  Christmas 

he  left  in  the  hands  of  the  angels.  But  he 
prayed.  He  prayed  every  night  for  weeks 
that  Santa  Claus  would  bring  him  a  pair 
of  skates  and  a  puppy-dog  and  an  air-gun 
and  a  bicycle  and  a  Noah's  ark  and 
a  sleigh  and  a  drum — altogether  about 
a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars'  worth  of 
stuff. 

I  went  into  Hoodoo's  room  quite  early 
Christmas  morning.  I  had  an  idea  that  the 
scene  would  be  interesting.  I  woke  him  up 
and  he  sat  up  in  bed,  his  eyes  glistening  with 
radiant  expectation,  and  began  hauling  things 
out  of  his  stocking. 

The  first  parcel  was  bulky;  it  was  done  up 
quite  loosely  and  had  an  odd  look  generally. 

"Ha!  ha!"  Hoodoo  cried  gleefully,  as  he 
began  undoing  it.  "I'll  bet  it's  the  puppy- 
dog,  all  wrapped  up  in  paper!" 

And  was  it  the  puppy-dog?  No,  by  no  means, 
It  was  a  pair  of  nice,  strong,  number-four  boots, 
laces  and  all,  labelled,  "Hoodoo,  from  Santa 
Claus,"  and  underneath  Santa  Claus  had  writ- 
ten, "95  net." 

The  boy's  jaw  fell  with  delight.  "It's 
boots,"  he  said,  and  plunged  in  his  hand 
again. 

133 


Literary  Lapses 


He  began  hauling  away  at  another  parcel 
with  renewed  hope  on  his  face. 

This  time  the  thing  seemed  like  a  little  round 
box.  Hoodoo  tore  the  paper  off  it  with  a  fe- 
verish hand.  He  shook  it;  something  rattled 
inside. 

"It's  a  watch  and  chain!  It's  a  watch  and 
chain!"  he  shouted.  Then  he  pulled  the  lid 
off. 

And  was  it  a  watch  and  chain?  No.  It  was 
a  box  of  nice,  brand-new  celluloid  collars, 
a  dozen  of  them  all  alike  and  all  his  own 
size. 

The  boy  was  so  pleased  that  you  could  see 
his  face  crack  up  with  pleasure. 

He  waited  a  few  minutes  until  his  intense 
joy  subsided.  Then  he  tried  again. 

This  time  the  packet  was  long  and  hard.  It 
resisted  the  touch  and  had  a  sort  of  funnel 
shape. 

"It's  a  toy  pistol!"  said  the  boy,  trembling 
with  excitement.  "Gee !  I  hope  there  are  lots 
of  caps  with  it !  I'll  fire  some  off  now  and  wake 
up  father." 

No,  my  poor  child,  you  will  not  wake  your 
father  with  that.  It  is  a  useful  thing,  but  it 
needs  not  caps  and  it  fires  no  bullets,  and  you 

134 


Hoodoo  McFiggin's  Christmas 

cannot  wake  a  sleeping  man  with  a  tooth-brush. 
Yes,  it  was  a  tooth-brush — a  regular  beauty, 
pure  bone  all  through,  and  ticketed  with 
a  little  paper,  "Hoodoo,  from  Santa 
Claus." 

Again  the  expression  of  intense  joy  passed 
over  the  boy's  face,  and  the  tears  of  gratitude 
started  from  his  eyes.  He  wiped  them  away 
with  his  tooth-brush  and  passed  on. 

The  next  packet  was  much  larger  and  evi- 
dently contained  something  soft  and  bulky.  It 
had  been  too  long  to  go  into  the  stocking  and 
was  tied  outside.  \ 

"I  wonder  what  this  is,"  Hoodoo  mused, 
half  afraid  to  open  it.  Then  his  heart  gave 
a  great  leap,  and  he  forgot  all  his  other  pres- 
ents in  the  anticipation  of  this  one.  "It's  the 
drum  I"  he  gasped.  "It's  the  drum,  all  wrapped 
up!" 

Drum  nothing!  It  was  pants — a  pair  of 
the  nicest  little  short  pants — yellowish-brown 
short  pants — with  dear  little  stripes  of  colour 
running  across  both  ways,  and  here  again 
Santa  Claus  had  written,  "Hoodoo,  from 
Santa  Claus,  one  fort  net." 

But  there  was  something  wrapped  up  in  it. 
Oh,  yes!  There  was  a  pair  of  braces  wrapped 


Literary  Lapses 


up  in  it,  braces  with  a  little  steel  sliding  thing 
so  that  you  could  slide  your  pants  up  to  your 
neck,  if  you  wanted  to. 

The  boy  gave  a  dry  sob  of  satisfaction. 
Then  he  took  out  his  last  present.  "It's 
a  book,"  he  said,  as  he  unwrapped  it.  "I  won- 
der if  it  is  fairy  stories  or  adventures.  Oh, 
I  hope  it's  adventures!  I'll  read  it  all  morn- 
ing." 

No,  Hoodoo,  it  was  not  precisely  adventures. 
It  was  a  small  family  Bible.  Hoodoo  had  now 
seen  all  his  presents,  and  he  arose  and  dressed. 
But  he  still  had  the  fun  of  playing  with  his  toys. 
That  is  always  the  chief  delight  of  Christmas 
morning. 

First  he  played  with  his  tooth-brush.  He 
got  a  whole  lot  of  water  and  brushed  all  his 
teeth  with  it.  This  was  huge. 

Then  he  played  with  his  collars.  He  had 
no  end  of  fun  with  them,  taking  them  all  out 
one  by  one  and  swearing  at  them,  and  then 
putting  them  back  and  swearing  at  the  whole 
lot  together. 

The  next  toy  was  his  pants.  He  had  im- 
mense fun  there,  putting  them  on  and  taking 
them  off  again,  and  then  trying  to  guess  which 
side  was  which  by  merely  looking  at  them. 

136 


Hoodoo  McFiggin's  Christmas 

After  that  he  took  his  book  and  read  some 
adventures  called  "Genesis"  till  breakfast- 
time. 

Then  he  went  downstairs  and  kissed  his  fath- 
er and  mother.  His  father  was  smoking  a  ci- 
gar, and  his  mother  had  her  new  brooch  on. 
Hoodoo's  face  was  thoughtful,  and  a  light 
seemed  to  have  broken  in  upon  his  mind.  In- 
deed, I  think  it  altogether  likely  that  next 
Christmas  he  will  hang  on  to  his  own  money  and 
take  chances  on  what  the  angels  bring. 


137 


The  Life  of  John  Smith 


1 


lives  of  great  men  occupy  a  large 
section  of  our  literature.  The  great 
man  is  certainly  a  wonderful  thing. 
He  walks  across  his  century  and 
leaves  the  marks  of  his  feet  all  over  it,  ripping 
out  the  dates  on  his  goloshes  as  he  passes.  It 
is  impossible  to  get  up  a  revolution  or  a  new 
religion,  or  a  national  awakening  of  any  sort, 
without  his  turning  up,  putting  himself  at  the 
head  of  it  and  collaring  all  the  gate-receipts 
for  himself.  Even  after  his  death  he  leaves  a 
long  trail  of  second-rate  relations  spattered  over 
the  front  seats  of  fifty  years  of  history. 

Now  the  lives  of  great  men  are  doubtless 
infinitely  interesting.  But  at  times  I  must  con- 
fess to  a  sense  of  reaction  and  an  idea  that  the 
ordinary  common  man  is  entitled  to  have  his 
biography  written  too.  It  is  to  illustrate  this 
view  that  I  write  the  life  of  John  Smith,  a  man 
neither  good  nor  great,  but  just  the,  usual, 
everyday  homo  like  you  and  me  and  the  rest 
of  us. 

From  his  earliest  childhood  John  Smith  was 
138 


The  Life  of  John  Smith 


marked  out  from  his  comrades  by  nothing.  The 
marvellous  precocity  of  the  boy  did  not  as- 
tonish his  preceptors.  Books  were  not  a  pas- 
sion for  him  from  his  youth,  neither  did  any 
old  man  put  his  hand  on  Smith's  head  and  say, 
mark  his  words,  this  boy  would  some  day  be- 
come a  man.  Nor  yet  was  it  his  father's  wont 
to  gaze  on  him  with  a  feeling  amounting  al- 
most to  awe.  By  no  means!  All  his  father 
did  was  to  wonder  whether  Smith  was  a  darn 
fool  because  he  couldn't  help  it,  or  because 
he  thought  it  smart.  In  other  words,  he  was 
just  like  you  and  me  and  the  rest  of  us. 

In  those  athletic  sports  which  were  the  orna- 
ment of  the  youth  of  his  day,  Smith  did  not, 
as  great  men  do,  excel  his  fellows.  He  couldn't 
ride  worth  a  darn.  He  couldn't  skate  worth 
a  darn.  He  couldn't  swim  worth  a  darn.  He 
couldn't  shoot  worth  a  darn.  He  couldn't 
do  anything  worth  a  darn.  He  was  just  like 
us. 

Nor  did  the  bold  cast  of  the  boy's  mind 
offset  his  physical  defects,  as  it  invariably  does 
in  the  biographies.  On  the  contrary.  He  was 
afraid  of  his  father.  He  was  afraid  of  his 
school-teacher.  He  was  afraid  of  dogs.  He 
was  afraid  of  guns.  He  was  afraid  of  light- 
139 


Literary  Lapses 


rung.  He  was  afraid  of  hell.  He  was  afraid 
of  girls. 

In  the  boy's  choice  of  a  profession  there 
was  not  seen  that  keen  longing  for  a  life-work 
that  we  find  in  the  celebrities.  He  didn't  want 
to  be  a  lawyer,  because  you  have  to  know 
law.  He  didn't  want  to  be  a  doctor,  because 
you  have  to  know  medicine.  He  didn't  want 
to  be  a  business-man,  because  you  have  to 
know  business;  and  he  didn't  want  to  be  a 
school-teacher,  because  he  had  seen  too  many 
of  them.  As  far  as  he  had  any  choice,  it  lay 
between  being  Robinson  Crusoe  and  being  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  His  father  refused  him 
both  and  put  him  into  a  dry  goods  establish- 
ment. 

Such  was  the  childhood  of  Smith.  At  its 
close  there  was  nothing  in  his  outward  appear- 
ance to  mark  the  man  of  genius.  The  casual 
observer  could  have  seen  no  genius  concealed 
behind  the  wide  face,  the  massive  mouth,  the 
long  slanting  forehead,  and  the  tall  ear  that 
swept  up  to  the  close-cropped  head.  Certainly 
he  couldn't.  There  wasn't  any  concealed  there. 

It  was  shortly  after  his  start  in  business  life 
that  Smith  was  stricken  with  the  first  of  those 
distressing  attacks,  to  which  he  afterwards  be- 

140 


The  Life  of  John  Smith 


came  subject.  It  seized  him  late  one  night  as 
he  was  returning  home  from  a  delightful  even- 
ing of  song  and  praise  with  a  few  old  school 
chums.  Its  symptoms  were  a  peculiar  heaving 
of  the  sidewalk,  a  dancing  of  the  street  lights, 
and  a  crafty  shifting  to  and  fro  of  the  houses, 
requiring  a  very  nice  discrimination  in  selecting 
his  own.  There  was  a  strong  desire  not  to 
drink  water  throughout  the  entire  attack,  which 
showed  that  the  thing  was  evidently  a  form 
of  hydrophobia.  From  this  time  on,  these 
painful  attacks  became  chronic  with  Smith. 
They  were  liable  to  come  on  at  any  time,  but 
especially  on  Saturday  nights,  on  the  first  of 
the  month,  and  on  Thanksgiving  Day.  He 
always  had  a  very  severe  attack  of  hydropho- 
bia on  Christmas  Eve,  and  after  elections  it  was 
fearful. 

There  was  one  incident  in  Smith's  career 
which  he  did,  perhaps,  share  with  regret.  He 
had  scarcely  reached  manhood  when  he  met 
the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world.  She  was 
different  from  all  other  women.  She  had  a 
deeper  nature  than  other  people.  Smith  real- 
ised it  at  once.  She  could  feel  and  understand 
things  that  ordinary  people  couldn't.  She 
could  understand  him.  She  had  a  great  sense 


Literary  Lapses 


of  humour  and  an  exquisite  appreciation  of  a 
joke.  He  told  her  the  six  that  he  knew  one 
night  and  she  thought  them  great.  Her  mere 
presence  made  Smith  feel  as  if  he  had  swal- 
lowed a  sunset:  the  first  time  that  his  finger 
brushed  against  hers,  he  felt  a  thrill  all  through 
him.  He  presently  found  that  if  he  took  a 
firm  hold  of  her  hand  with  his,  he  could  get  a 
fine  thrill,  and  if  he  sat  beside  her  on  a  sofa, 
with  his  head  against  her  ear  and  his  arm  about 
once  and  a  half  round  her,  he  could  get  what 
you  might  call  a  first-class,  A-i  thrill.  Smith 
became  filled  with  the  idea  that  he  would  like 
to  have  her  always  near  him.  He  suggested 
an  arrangement  to  her,  by  which  she  should 
.come  and  live  in  the  same  house  with  him  and 
take  personal  charge  of  his  clothes  and  his 
meals.  She  was  to  receive  in  return  her  board 
and  washing,  about  seventy-five  cents  a  week 
in  ready  money,  and  Smith  was  to  be  her 
slave. 

After  Smith  had  been  this  woman's  slave  for 
some  time,  baby  fingers  stole  across  his  life, 
then  another  set  of  them,  and  then  more  and 
more  till  the  house  was  full  of  them.  The  wo- 
man's mother  began  to  steal  across  his  life, 
too,  and  every  time  she  came  Smith  had  hydro- 

142 


The  Life  of  John  Smith 


phobia  frightfully.  Strangely  enough  there  was 
no  little  prattler  that  was  taken  from  his  life 
and  became  a  saddened,  hallowed  memory  to 
him.  Oh,  no !  The  little  Smiths  were  not  that 
kind  of  prattler.  The  whole  nine  grew  up  into 
tall,  lank  boys  with  massive  mouths  and  great 
sweeping  ears  like  their  father's,  and  no  talent 
for  anything. 

The  life  of  Smith  never  seemed  to  bring  him 
to  any  of  those  great  turning-points  that  occur- 
red in  the  lives  of  the  great.  True,  the  pass- 
ing years  brought  some  change  of  fortune.  He 
was  moved  up  in  his  dry-goods  establishment 
from  the  ribbon  counter  to  the  collar  counter, 
from  the  collar  counter  to  the  gents'  panting 
counter,  and  from  the  gents'  panting  to  the 
gents'  fancy  shirting.  Then,  as  he  grew  aged 
and  inefficient,  they  moved  him  down  again 
from  the  gents'  fancy  shirting  to  the  gents' 
panting,  and  so  on  to  the  ribbon  counter.  And 
when  he  grew  quite  old  they  dismissed  him  and 
got  a  boy  with  a  four-inch  mouth  and  sandy- 
coloured  hair,  who  did  all  Smith  could  do  for 
half  the  money.  That  was  John  Smith's  mer- 
cantile career:  it  won't  stand  comparison 
with  Mr.  Gladstone's,  but  it's  not  unlike  your 
own. 

143 


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Smith  lived  for  five  years  after  this.  His 
sons  kept  him.  They  didn't  want  to,  but  they 
had  to.  In  his  old  age  the  brightness  of  his 
mind  and  his  fund  of  anecdote  were  not  the 
delight  of  all  who  dropped  in  to  see  him.  He 
told  seven  stories  and  he  knew  six  jokes.  The 
stories  were  long  things  all  about  himself,  and 
the  jokes  were  about  a  commercial  traveller 
and  a  Methodist  minister.  But  nobody  dropped 
in  to  see  him,  anyway,  so  it  didn't  matter. 

At  sixty-five  Smith  was  taken  ill,  and,  re- 
ceiving proper  treatment,  he  died.  There  was 
a  tombstone  put  up  over  him,  with  a  hand  point- 
ing north-north-east. 

But  I  doubt  if  he  ever  got  there.  He  was 
too  like  us. 


144 


On  Collecting  Things 


LIKE  most  other  men  I  have  from  time 
to  time  been  stricken  with  a  desire 
to  make  collections  of  things. 
It  began  with  postage  stamps.     I 
had  a  letter  from  a  friend  of  mine  who  had 
gone  out  to  South  Africa.     The  letter  had  a 
three-cornered  stamp  on  it,  and  I  thought  as- 
soon  as  I  looked  at  it,  "That's  the  thing!  Stamp 
collecting!    I'll  devote  my  life  to  it." 

I  bought  an  album  with  accommodation  for 
the  stamps  of  all  nations,  and  began  collecting 
right  off.     For  three  days  the  collection  made 
wonderful  progress.     It  contained: 
One  Cape  of  Good  Hope  stamp. 
One    one-cent     stamp,     United     States     of 
America. 

One    two-cent    stamp,    United    States    of 
America. 

One     five-cent     stamp,     United     States    of 
America. 

One    ten-cent    stamp,     United     States     of 
America. 

After  that  the  collection  came  to  a  dead  stop, 
145 


Literary  Lapses 


For  a  while  I  used  to  talk  about  it  rather  airily 
and  say  I  had  one  or  two  rather  valuable  South 
African  stamps.  But  I  presently  grew  tired 
even  of  lying  about  it. 

Collecting  coins  is  a  thing  that  I  attempt  at 
intervals.  Every  time  I  am  given  an  old  half- 
penny or  a  Mexican  quarter,  I  get  an  idea  that 
if  a  fellow  made  a  point  of  holding  on  to  rari- 
ties of  that  sort,  he'd  soon  have  quite  a  valu- 
able collection.  The  first  time  that  I  tried  it  I 
was  full  of  enthusiasm,  and  before  long  my  col- 
lection numbered  quite  a  few  articles  of  vertu. 
The  items  were  as  follows: 

No.  i.  Ancient  Roman  coin.  Time  of  Cali- 
gula. This  one  of  course  was  the  gem  of  the 
whole  lot;  it  was  given  me  by  a  friend,  and 
that  was  what  started  me  collecting. 

No.  2.  Small  copper  coin.  Value  one  cent. 
United  States  of  America.  Apparently  modern. 

No.  3.  Small  nickel  coin.  Circular.  United 
States  of  America.  Value  five  cents. 

No.  4.  Small  silver  coin.  Value  ten  cents. 
United  States  of  America. 

No.  5.  Silver  coin.  Circular.  Value  twen- 
ty-five cents.  United  States  of  America.  Very 
beautiful. 

No.  6.  Large  silver  coin.  Circular.  In- 
146 


On  Collecting  Things 


scription,  "One  Dollar."  United  States  of 
America.  Very  valuable. 

No.  7.  Ancient  British  copper  coin.  Prob- 
ably time  of  Caractacus.  Very  dim.  Inscrip- 
tion, "Victoria  Dei  gratia  regina."  Very  valu^ 
able. 

No.  8.  Silver  coin.  Evidently  French.  In- 
scription, "Fiinf  Mark.  Kaiser  Wilhelm." 

No.  9.  Circular  silver  coin.  Very  much  de- 
faced. Part  of  inscription,  UE  Pluribus 
Unum."  Probably  a  Russian  rouble,  but  quite 
as  likely  to  be  a  Japanese  yen  or  a  Shanghai 
rooster. 

That's  as  far  as  that  collection  got.  It  lasted 
through  most  of  the  winter  and  I  was  getting 
quite  proud  of  it,  but  I  took  the  coins  down 
town  one  evening  to  show  to  a  friend  and  we 
spent  No.  3,  No.  4,  No.  5,  No.  6,  and  No.  7 
in  buying  a  little  dinner  for  two.  After  dinner 
I  bought  a  yen's  worth  of  cigars  and  traded 
the  relic  of  Caligula  for  as  many  hot  Scotches 
as  they  cared  to  advance  on  it.  After  that  I 
felt  reckless  and  put  No.  2  and  No.  8  into  a 
Children's  Hospital  poor  box. 

I  tried  fossils  next.  I  got  two  in  ten  years. 
Then  I  quit. 

A  friend  of  mine  once  showed  me  a  very 


Literary  Lapses 


fine  collection  of  ancient  and  curious  weapons, 
and  for  a  time  I  was  full  of  that  idea.  I  gath- 
ered several  interesting  specimens,  such  as: 

No.  i.  Old  flint-lock  musket,  used  by  my 
grandfather.  (He  used  it  on  the  farm  for 
years  as  a  crowbar.) 

No.  2.  Old  raw-hide  strap,  used  by  my 
father. 

No.  3.  Ancient  Indian  arrowhead,  found  by 
myself  the  very  day  after  I  began  collecting. 
It  resembles  a  three-cornered  stone. 

No.  4.  Ancient  Indian  bow,  found  by  my- 
self behind  a  sawmill  on  the  second  day  of 
collecting.  It  resembles  a  straight  stick  of  elm 
or  oak.  It  is  interesting  to  think  that  this  very 
weapon  may  have  figured  in  some  fierce  scene 
of  savage  warfare. 

No.  5.  Cannibal  poniard  or  straight-handled 
dagger  of  the  South  Sea  Islands.  It  will  give 
the  reader  almost  a  thrill  of  horror  to  learn 
that  this  atrocious  weapon,  which  I  bought 
myself  on  the  third  day  of  collecting,  was  ac- 
tually exposed  in  a  second-hand  store  as  a  fam- 
ily carving-knife.  In  gazing  at  it  one  cannot 
refrain  from  conjuring  up  the  awful  scenes  it 
must  have  witnessed. 

I  kept  this  collection  for  quite  a  long  while 
148 


On  Collecting  Things 


until,  in  a  moment  of  infatuation,  I  presented 
it  to  a  young  lady  as  a  betrothal  present.  The 
gift  proved  too  ostentatious  and  our  relations 
subsequently  ceased  to  be  cordial. 

On  the  whole  I  am  inclined  to  recommend 
the  beginner  to  confine  himself  to  collecting 
coins.  At  present  I  am  myself  making  a  col- 
lection of  American  bills  (time  of  Taft  pre- 
ferred), a  pursuit  I  find  most  absorbing. 


Society  Chit-Chat 


AS  IT  SHOULD  BE  WRITTEN 

I  NOTICE  that  it  is  customary  for  the 
daily  papers  to  publish  a  column  or  so 
of  society  gossip.  They  generally  head 
it  "Chit-Chat,"  or  "On  Dit,"  or  "Le 
Boudoir,"  or  something  of  the  sort,  and  they 
keep  it  pretty  full  of  French  terms  to  give  it 
the  proper  so'rt  of  swing.  These  columns  may 
be  very  interesting  in  their  way,  but  it  always 
seems  to  me  that  they  don't  get  hold  of  quite 
the  right  things  to  tell  us  about.  They  are 
very  fond,  for  instance,  of  giving  an  account 
of  the  delightful  dance  at  Mrs.  De  Smythe's 
— at  which  Mrs.  De  Smythe  looked  charming 
in  a  gown  of  old  tulle  with  a  stomacher  of 
passementerie — or  of  the  dinner-party  at  Mr. 
Alonzo  Robinson's  residence,  of  the  smart 
pink  tea  given  by  Miss  Carlotta  Jones.  No, 
that's  all  right,  but  it's  not  the  kind  of  thing  we 
want  to  get  at;  those  are  not  the  events  which 
happen  in  our  neighbours'  houses  that  we  really 
want  to  hear  about.  It  is  the  quiet  little  fam- 

150 


Society  Chit-Chat 


ily  scenes,  the  little  traits  of  home-life  that — 
well,  for  example,  take  the  case  of  that  de- 
lightful party  at  the  De  Smythes.  I  am  cer- 
tain that  all  those  who  were  present  would 
much  prefer  a  little  paragraph  like  the  follow- 
ing, which  would  give  them  some  idea  of  the 
home-life  of  the  De  Smythes  on  the  morning 
after  the  party. 

DEJEUNER  DE  LUXE  AT  THE  DE  SMYTHE 
RESIDENCE 

On  Wednesday  morning  last  at  7.15  a.m. 
a  charming  little  breakfast  was  served  at  the 
home  of  Mr.  De  Smythe.  The  dejeuner  was 
given  in  honour  of  Mr.  De  Smythe  and  his 
two  sons,  Master  Adolphus  and  Master  Blinks 
De  Smythe,  who  were  about  to  leave  for  their 
daily  travail  at  their  wholesale  Bureau  de 
Flour  et  de  Feed.  All  the  gentlemen  were  very 
quietly  dressed  in  their  habits  de  work.  Miss 
Melinda  De  Smythe  poured  out  tea,  the 
domestique  having  refuse  to  get  up  so  early 
after  the  partie  of  the  night  before.  The  menu 
was  very  handsome,  consisting  of  eggs  and  ba- 
con, demi-froid,  and  ice-cream.  The  conver- 
sation was  sustained  and  lively.  Mr.  De 


Literary  Lapses 


Smythe  sustained  it  and  made  it  lively  for  his 
daughter  and  his  garqons.  In  the  course  of  the 
talk  Mr.  De  Smythe  stated  that  the  nexr  time 
he  allowed  the  young  people  to  turn  his  maison 
topsy-turvy  he  would  see  them  in  enfer.  He 
wished  to  know  if  they  were  aware  that  some 
ass  of  the  evening  before  had  broken  a  pane 
of  coloured  glass  in  the  hall  that  would  cost 
him  four  dollars.  Did  they  think  he  was  made 
of  argent.  If  so,  they  never  made  a  bigger 
mistake  in  their  vie.  The  meal  closed  with 
general  expressions  of  good-feeling.  A  little 
bird  has  whispered  to  us  that  there  will  be  no 
more  parties  at  the  De  Smythes'  pour  long- 
temps. 

Here  is  another  little  paragraph  that  would 
be  of  general  interest  in  society. 

DINER  DE  FAMEEL  AT  THE  BOARDING-HOUSE 

DE  McFlGGIN 

Yesterday  evening  at  half  after  six  a  pleas- 
ant little  diner  was  given  by  Madame  McFig- 
gin  of  Rock  Street,  to  her  boarders.  The  salle 
a  manger  was  very  prettily  decorated  with 
texts,  and  the  furniture  upholstered  with  chev- 
eux  de  horse,  Louis  Quinze.  The  boarders 

152 


Society  CMt-Chat 


were  all  very  quietly  dressed:  Mrs.  McFiggin 
was  daintily  attired  in  some  old  clinging  stuff 
with  a  corsage  de  Whalebone  underneath.  The 
ample  board  groaned  under  the  bill  of  fare. 
The  boarders  groaned  also.  Their  groaning 
was  very  noticeable.  The  piece  de  resistance 
was  a  hunko  de  bceuf  boile,  flanked  with  some 
old  clinging  stuff.  The  entrees  were  pdte  de 
pumpkin,  followed  by  fromage  McFiggin, 
served  under  glass.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
first  course,  speeches  became  the  order  of  the 
day.  Mrs.  McFiggin  was  the  first  speaker.  In 
commencing,  she  expressed  her  surprise  that  so 
few  of  the  gentlemen  seemed  to  care  for  the 
hunko  de  bceuf;  her  own  mind,  she  said,  had 
hesitated  between  hunko  de  bceuf  boile  and  a 
pair  of  roast  chickens  (sensation).  She  had 
finally  decided  in  favour  of  the  hunko  de  bceuf 
(no  sensation).  She  referred  at  some  length 
to  the  late  Mr.  McFiggin,  who  had  always 
shown  a  marked  preference  for  hunko  de  bceuf. 
Several  other  speakers  followed.  All  spoke 
forcibly  and  to  the  point.  The  last  to  speak 
was  the  Reverend  Mr.  Whiner.  The  reverend 
gentleman,  in  rising,  said  that  he  confided  him- 
self and  his  fellow-boarders  to  the  special  inter- 
ference of  Providence.  For  what  they  had 
153 


Literary  Lapses 


eaten,  he  said,  he  hoped  that  Providence  would 
make  them  truly  thankful.  At  the  close  of  the 
Repas  several  of  the  boarders  expressed  their 
intention  of  going  down  the  street  to  a  res- 
tourong  to  get  quelque  chose  a  manger. 

Here  is  another  example.  How  interesting 
it  would  be  to  get  a  detailed  account  of  that 
little  affair  at  the  Robinsons',  of  which  the 
neighbours  only  heard  indirectly!  Thus: 

DELIGHTFUL  EVENING  AT  THE  RESIDENCE  OF 
MR.  ALONZO  ROBINSON 

Yesterday  the  family  of  Mr.  Alonzo  Robin- 
son spent  a  very  lively  evening  at  their  home 

on   th   Avenue.     The    occasion    was    the 

seventeenth  birthday  of  Master  Alonzo  Robin- 
son, junior.  It  was  the  original  intention  of 
Master  Alonzo  Robinson  to  celebrate  the  day 
at  home  and  invite  a  few  of  les  garcons.  Mr. 
Robinson,  senior,  however,  having  declared 
that  he  would  be  damne  first,  Master  Alonzo 
spent  the  evening  in  visiting  the  salons  of  the 
town,  which  he  painted  rouge.  Mr.  Robinson, 
senior,  spent  the  evening  at  home  in  quiet  ex- 
pectation of  his  son's  return.  He  was  very  be- 
comingly dressed  in  a  pantalon  quatre 

154 


Society  Chit-Chat 


treize,  and  had  his  whippe  de  chien  laid  across 
his  knee.  Madame  Robinson  and  the  Made- 
moiselles Robinson  wore  black.  The  guest  of 
the  evening  arrived  at  a  late  hour.  He  wore 
his  habits  de  spri,  and  had  about  six  polices 
of  eau  de  vie  in  him.  He  was  evidently  full 
up  to  his  cou.  For  some  time  after  his  arrival 
a  very  lively  time  was  spent.  Mr.  Robinson 
having  at  length  broken  the  whippe  de  chien, 
the  family  parted  for  the  night  with  expres- 
sions of  cordial  goodwill. 


Insurance  Up  to  Date 


A  MAN  called  on  me  the  other  day 
with  the  idea  of  insuring  my  life. 
Now,  I  detest  life-insurance  agents; 
they  always  argue  that  I  shall  some 
day  die,  which  is  not  so.     I  have  been  insured 
a  great  many  times,  for  about  a  month  at  a 
time,  but  have  had  no  luck  with  it  at  all. 

So  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  outwit 
this  man  at  his  own  game.  I  let  him  talk 
straight  ahead  and  encouraged  him  all  I  could, 
until  he  finally  left  me  with  a  sheet  of  ques- 
tions which  I  was  to  answer  as  an  applicant. 
Now  this  was  what  I  was  waiting  for;  I  had 
decided  that,  if  that  company  wanted  informa- 
tion about  me,  they  should  have  it,  and  have 
the  very  best  quality  I  could  supply.  So  I 
spread  the  sheet  of  questions  before  me,  and 
drew  up  a  set  of  answers  for  them,  which,  I 
hoped,  would  settle  for  ever  all  doubts  as  to 
my  eligibility  for  insurance. 
Question. — What  is  your  age? 
Answer. — I  can't  think. 
156 


Insurance  Up  to  Date 


Q. — What  is  your  chest  measurement? 

A. — Nineteen  inches. 

Q. — What  is  your  chest  expansion? 

A. — Half  an  inch. 

Q. — What  is  your  height? 

A. — Six  feet  five,  if  erect,  but  less  when  I 
walk  on  all  fours. 

Q. — Is  your  grandfather  dead? 

A. — Practically. 

Q. — Cause  of  death,  if  dead? 

A. — Dipsomania,  if  dead. 

Q. — Is  your  father  dead? 

A. — To  the  world. 

Q. — Cause  of  death? 

A. — Hydrophobia. 

Q. — Place  of  father's  residence? 

A. — Kentucky. 

Q. — What  illness  have  you  had? 

A. — As  a  child,  consumption,  leprosy,  and 
water  on  the  knee.  As  a  man,  whooping- 
cough,  stomach-ache,  and  water  on  the  brain. 

Q. — Have  you  any  brothers? 

A. — Thirteen;  all  nearly  dead. 

Q. — Are  you  aware  of  any  habits  or  ten- 
dencies which  might  be  expected  to  shorten  your 
life? 

A. — I  am  aware.  I  drink,  I  smoke,  I  take 
157 


Literary  Lapses 


morphine  and  vaseline.    I  swallow  grape  seeds 
and  I  hate  exercise. 

I  thought  when  I  had  come  to  the  end  of 
that  list  that  I  had  made  a  dead  sure  thing  of 
it,  and  I  posted  the  paper  with  a  cheque  for 
three  months'  payment,  feeling  pretty  confi- 
dent of  having  the  cheque  sent  back  to 
me.  I  was  a  good  deal  surprised  a  few  days 
later  to  receive  the  following  letter  from  the 
company : 

"DEAR  SIR, — We  beg  to  acknowledge  your 
letter  of  application  and  cheque  for  fifteen  dol- 
lars. After  a  careful  comparison  of  your  case 
with  the  average  modern  standard,  we  are 
pleased  to  accept  you  as  a  first-class  risk." 


158 


Borrowing  a  Match 


YOU  might  think  that  borrowing  a 
match  upon  the  street  is  a  simple 
thing.  But  any  man  who  has  ever 
tried  it  will  assure  you  that  it  is  not, 
and  will  be  prepared  to  swear  to  the  truth  of 
my  experience  of  the  other  evening. 

I  was  standing  on  the  corner  of  the  street 
with  a  cigar  that  I  wanted  to  light.  I  had  no 
match.  I  waited  till  a  decent,  ordinary-looking 
man  came  along.  Then  I  said: 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  could  you  oblige  me 
with  the  loan  of  a  match?" 

"A  match?"  he  said,  "why  certainly." 
Then  he  unbuttoned  his  overcoat  and  put  his 
hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.  "I  know 
I  have  one,"  he  went  on,  "and  I'd  almost 
swear  it's  in  the  bottom  pocket — or,  hold  on, 
though,  I  guess  it  may  be  in  the  top — just  wait 
till  I  put  these  parcels  down  on  the  sidewalk." 

"Oh,  don't  trouble,"  I  said,  "it's  really  of 
no  consequence." 

"Oh,  it's  no  trouble,  I'll  have  it  in  a  minute ; 
I  know  there  must  be  one  in  here  somewhere" 

IS9 


Literary  Lapses 


— he  was  digging  his  fingers  into  his  pockets 
as  he  spoke — "but  you  see  this  isn't  the  waist- 
coat I  generally  ..." 

I  saw  that  the  man  was  getting  excited  about 
it.  "Well,  never  mind,"  I  protested;  "if  that 
isn't  the  waistcoat  that  you  generally — why,  it 
doesn't  matter." 

"Hold  on,  now,  hold  on  I"  the  man  said, 
"I've  got  one  of  the  cursed  things  in  here 
somewhere.  I  guess  it  must  be  in  with  my 
watch.  No,  it's  not  there  either.  Wait  till 
I  try  my  coat.  If  that  confounded  tailor  only 
knew  enough  to  make  a  pocket  so  that  a  man 
could  get  at  it!" 

He  was  getting  pretty  well  worked  up  now. 
He  had  thrown  down  his  walking-stick  and 
was  plunging  at  his  pockets  with  his  teeth  set. 
"It's  that  cursed  young  boy  of  mine,"  he 
hissed;  "this  comes  of  his  fooling  in  my 
pockets.  By  Gad!  perhaps  I  won't  warm  him 
up  when  I  get  home.  Say,  I'll  bet  that  it's  in 
my  hip-pocket.  You  just  hold  up  the  tail  of 
my  overcoat  a  second  till  I  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,"  I  protested  again,  "please  don't 
take  all  this  trouble,  it  really  doesn't  matter. 
I'm  sure  you  needn't  take  off  your  overcoat, 
and  oh,  pray  don't  throw  away  your  letters 

160 


Borrowing  a  Match 


and  things  in  the  snow  like  that,  and  tear  out 
your  pockets  by  the  roots !  Please,  please  don't 
trample  over  your  overcoat  and  put  your  feet 
through  the  parcels.  I  do  hate  to  hear  you 
swearing  at  your  little  boy,  with  that  peculiar 
whine  in  your  voice.  Don't — please  don't  tear 
your  clothes  so  savagely." 

Suddenly  the  man  gave  a  grunt  of  exulta- 
tion, and  drew  his  hand  up  from  inside  the 
lining  of  his  coat. 

"I've  got  it,"  he  cried.  "Here  you  are!" 
Then  he  brought  it  out  under  the  light. 

It  was  a  toothpick. 

Yielding  to  the  impulse  of  the  moment  I 
pushed  him  under  the  wheels  of  a  trolley-car 
and  ran. 


161 


A  Lesson  in  Fiction 


SUPPOSE  that  in  the  opening  pages  of 
the   modern   melodramatic   novel   you 
find  some  such  situation  as  the  follow- 
ing,  in  which   is  depicted  the  terrific 
combat  between   Gaspard   de  Vaux,   the   boy 
lieutenant,  and  Hairy  Hank,  the  chief  of  the 
Italian  banditti: 

"The  inequality  of  the  contest  was  apparent. 
With  a  mingled  yell  of  rage  and  contempt,  his 
sword  brandished  above  his  head  and  his  dirk 
between  his  teeth,  the  enormous  bandit  rushed 
upon  his  intrepid  opponent.  De  Vaux  seemed 
scarce  more  than  a  stripling,  but  he  stood  his 
ground  and  faced  his  hitherto  invincible  as- 
sailant. 'Mong  Dieu,'  cried  De  Smythe,  'he 
is  lost!'" 

Question.  On  which  of  the  parties  to  the 
above  contest  do  you  honestly  feel  inclined  to 
put  your  money? 

Answer.  On  De  Vaux.  He'll  win.  Hairy 
Hank  will  force  him  down  to  one  knee  and  with 
a  brutal  cry  of  "Har!  har!"  will  be  about  to 
dirk  him,  when  De  Vaux  will  make  a  sudden 

162 


A  Lesson  in  Fiction 


lunge    (one  he  had  learnt  at  home  out  of  a 
book  of  lunges)  and 

Very  good.  You  have  answered  correctly. 
Now,  suppose  you  find,  a  little  later  in  the 
book,  that  the  killing  of  Hairy  Hank  has  com- 
pelled De  Vaux  to  flee  from  his  native  land 
to  the  East.  Are  you  not  fearful  for  his  safety 
in  the  desert? 

Answer.  Frankly,  I  am  not.  De  Vaux  is 
all  right.  His  name  is  on  the  title  page,  and, 
you  can't  kill  him. 

Question.  Listen  to  this,  then:  "The  sun 
of  Ethiopia  beat  fiercely  upon  the  desert  as 
De  Vaux,  mounted  upon  his  faithful  elephant, 
pursued  his  lonely  way.  Seated  in  his  lofty 
hoo-doo,  his  eye  scoured  the  waste.  Suddenly 
a  solitary  horseman  appeared  on  the  horizon, 
then  another,  and  another,  and  then  six.  In 
a  few  moments  a  whole  crowd  of  solitary 
horsemen  swooped  down  upon  him.  There 
was  a  fierce  shout  of  'Allah  I'  a  rattle  of  fire- 
arms. De  Vaux  sank  from  his  hoo-doo  on  to 
the  sands,  while  the  affrighted  elephant  dashed 
off  in  all  directions.  The  bullet  had  struck 
him  in  the  heart." 

There  now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Isn't 
De  Vaux  killed  now? 

163 


Literary  Lapses 


Answer.  I  am  sorry.  De  Vaux  is  not  dead. 
True,  the  ball  had  hit  him,  oh  yes,  it  had  hit 
him,  but  it  had  glanced  off  against  a  family 
Bible,  which  he  carried  in  his  waistcoat  in  case 
of  illness,  struck  some  hymns  that  he  had  in 
his  hip-pocket,  and,  glancing  off  again, 
had  flattened  itself  against  De  Vaux's  diary 
of  his  life  in  the  desert,  which  was  in  his 
knapsack. 

Question.  But  even  if  this  doesn't  kill  him, 
you  must  admit  that  he  is  near  death  when 
he  is  bitten  in  the  iungle  by  the  deadly  d,on- 
gola? 

Answer.  That's  all  right.  A  kindly  Arab 
will  take  De  Vaux  to  the  Sheik's  tent. 

Question.  What  will  De  Vaux  remind  the 
Sheik  of? 

Answer.  Too  easy.  Of  his  long-lost  son, 
who  disappeared  years  ago. 

Question.     Was  this  son  Hairy  Hank? 

Answer.  Of  course  he  was.  Anyone  could 
see  that,  but  the  Sheik  never  suspects  it,  and 
heals  De  Vaux.  He  heals  him  with  an  herb, 
a  thing  called  a  simple,  an  amazingly  simple, 
known  only  to  the  Sheik.  Since  using  this  herb, 
the  Sheik  has  used  no  other. 

Question.  The  Sheik  will  recognise  an  over- 
164 


A  Lesson  in  Fiction 


coat  that  De  Vaux  is  wearing,  and  complica- 
tions will  arise  in  the  matter  of  Hairy  Hank 
deceased.  Will  this  result  in  the  death  of  the 
boy  lieutenant? 

Answer.  No.  By  this  time  De  Vaux  has 
realised  that  the  reader  knows  he  won't  die, 
and  resolves  to  quit  the  desert.  The  thought 
of  his  mother  keeps  recurring  to  him,  and  of 
his  father,  too,  the  grey,  stooping  old  man — 
does  he  stoop  still  or  has  he  stopped  stooping? 
At  times,  too,  there  comes  the  thought  of  an- 
other, a  fairer  than  his  father;  she  whose — 
but  enough,  De  Vaux  returns  to  the  old  home- 
stead in  Piccadilly. 

Question.  When  De  Vaux  returns  to  Eng- 
land, what  will  happen? 

Answer.  This  will  happen:  "He  who  left 
England  ten  years  before  a  raw  boy,  has  re- 
turned a  sunburnt  soldierly  man.  But  who  is 
this  that  advances  smilingly  to  meet  him? 
Can  the  mere  girl,  the  bright  child  that  shared 
his  hours  of  play,  can  she  have  grown  into  this 
peerless,  graceful  girl,  at  whose  feet  half  the 
noble  suitors  of  England  are  kneeling?  'Can 
this  be  her?'  he  asks  himself  in  amaze- 
ment." 

Question.     Is  it  her? 
165 


Literary  Lapses 


Answer.  Oh,  it's  her  all  right.  It  is  her, 
and  it  is  him,  and  it  is  them.  That  girl  hasn't 
waited  fifty  pages  for  nothing. 

Question.  You  evidently  guess  that  a  love 
affair  will  ensue  between  the  boy  lieutenant 
and  the  peerless  girl  with  the  broad  feet. 
Do  you  imagine,  however,  that  its  course  will 
run  smoothly  and  leave  nothing  to  re- 
cord? 

Answer.  Not  at  all.  I  feel  certain  that  the 
scene  of  the  novel  having  edged  itself  around 
to  London,  the  writer  will  not  feel  satisfied 
unless  he  introduces  the  following  famous 
scene : 

"Stunned  by  the  cruel  revelation  which  he 
had  received,  unconscious  of  whither  his  steps 
were  taking  him,  Gaspard  de  Vaux  wandered 
on  in  the  darkness  from  street  to  street  until 
he  found  himself  upon  London  Bridge.  He 
leaned  over  the  parapet  and  looked  down  upon 
the  whirling  stream  below.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  still,  swift  rush  of  it  that  seemed 
to  beckon,  to  allure  him.  After  all,  why 
not?  What  was  life  now  that  he  should  prize 
it?  For  a  moment  De  Vaux  paused  irreso- 
lute." 

Question.    Will  he  throw  himself  in? 
166 


A  Lesson  in  Fiction 


Answer.  Well,  say  you  don't  know  Gas- 
pard.  He  will  pause  irresolute  up  to  the  limit, 
then,  with  a  fierce  struggle,  will  recall  his  cour- 
age and  hasten  from  the  Bridge. 

Question.  This  struggle  not  to  throw  one- 
self in  must  be  dreadfully  difficult? 

Answer.  Oh!  dreadfully!  Most  of  us  are 
so  frail  we  should  jump  in  at  once.  But  Gas- 
pard  has  the  knack  of  it.  Besides  he  still  has 
some  of  the  Sheik's  herb;  he  chews  it. 

Question.  What  has  happened  to  De  Vaux 
anyway?  Is  it  anything  he  has  eaten? 

Answer.  No,  it  is  nothing  that  he  has  eaten. 
It's  about  her.  The  blow  has  come.  She  has 
no  use  for  sunburn,  doesn't  care  for  tan;  she 
is  going  to  marry  a  duke  and  the  boy  lieuten- 
ant is  no  longer  in  it.  The  real  trouble  is 
that  the  modern  novelist  has  got  beyond  the 
happy-marriage  mode  of  ending.  He  wants 
tragedy  and  a  blighted  life  to  wind  up 
with. 

Question.     How  will  the  book  conclude? 

Answer.  Oh,  De  Vaux  will  go  back  to  the 
desert,  fall  upon  the  Sheik's  neck,  and  swear 
to  be  a  second  Hairy  Hank  to  him.  There  will 
be  a  final  panorama  of  the  desert,  the  Sheik 
and  his  newly  found  son  at  the  door  of  the 
167 


Literary  Lapses 


tent,  the  sun  setting  behind  a  pyramid,  and  De 
Vaux's  faithful  elephant  crouched  at  his 
feet  and  gazing  up  at  him  with  dumb  affec- 
tion. 


168 


Helping  the  Armenians 


1 


financial  affairs  of  the  parish 
church  up  at  Doogalville  have  been 
getting  rather  into  a  tangle  in  the 
last  six  months.  The  people  of  the 
church  were  specially  anxious  to  do  something 
toward  the  general  public  subscription  of  the 
town  on  behalf  of  the  unhappy  Armenians, 
and  to  that  purpose  they  determined  to  devote 
the  collections  taken  up  at  a  series  of  special 
evening  services.  To  give  the  right  sort  of 
swing  to  the  services  and  to  stimulate  generous 
giving,  they  put  a  new  pipe  organ  into  the 
church.  In  order  to  make  a  preliminary  pay- 
ment on  the  organ,  it  was  decided  to  raise  a 
mortgage  on  the  parsonage. 

To  pay  the  interest  on  the  mortgage,  the 
choir  of  the  church  got  up  a  sacred  concert  in 
the  town  hall. 

To  pay  for  the  town  hall,  the  Willing 
Workers'  Guild  held  a  social  in  the  Sunday 
school.  To  pay  the  expenses  of  the  social, 
the  rector  delivered  a  public  lecture  on  "Italy 
and  Her  Past,"  illustrated  by  a  magic  lantern. 
169 


Literary  Lapses 


To  pay  for  the  magic  lantern,  the  curate  and 
the  ladies  of  the  church  got  up  some  amateur 
theatricals. 

Finally,  to  pay  for  the  costumes  for  the  the- 
atricals, the  rector  felt  it  his  duty  to  dispense 
with  the  curate. 

So  that  is  where  the  church  stands  just  at 
present.  What  they  chiefly  want  to  do,  is  to 
raise  enough  money  to  buy  a  suitable  gold 
watch  as  a  testimonial  to  the  curate.  After 
that  they  hope  to  be  able  to  do  something  for 
the  Armenians.  Meantime,  of  course,  the  Ar- 
menians, the  ones  right  there  in  the  town,  are 
getting  very  troublesome.  To  begin  with, 
there  is  the  Armenian  who  rented  the  costumes 
for  the  theatricals :  he  has  to  be  squared.  Then 
there  is  the  Armenian  organ  dealer,  and  the 
Armenian  who  owned  the  magic  lantern.  They 
want  relief  badly. 

The  most  urgent  case  is  that  of  the  Arme- 
nian who  holds  the  mortgage  on  the  parson- 
age; indeed  it  is  generally  felt  in  the  congrega- 
tion, when  the  rector  makes  his  impassioned 
appeals  at  the  special  services  on  behalf  of  the 
suffering  cause,  that  it  is  to  this  man  that  he 
has  special  reference. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  general  public  sub- 
170 


Helping  the  Armenians 


scription  is  not  getting  along  very  fast;  but  the 
proprietor  of  the  big  saloon  further  down  the 
street  and  the  man  -with  the  short  cigar  that 
runs  the  Doogalville  Midway  Plaisance  have 
been  most  liberal  in  their  contributions. 


171 


A  Study  in  Still  Life. — The  Country  Hotel 


1 


"\HE  country  hotel  stands  on  the 
sunny  side  of  Main  Street.  It  has 
three  entrances. 

There  is  one  in  front  which  leads 
into  the  Bar.  There  is  one  at  the  side  called 
the  Ladies'  Entrance  which  leads  into  the  Bar 
from  the  side.  There  is  also  the  Main  En- 
trance which  leads  into  the  Bar  through  the 
Rotunda. 

The  Rotunda  is  the  space  between  the  door 
of  the  bar-room  and  the  cigar-case. 
"  In  it  is  a  desk  and  a  book.  In  the  book  are 
written  down  the  names  of  the  guests,  to- 
gether with  marks  indicating  the  direction  of 
the  wind  and  the  height  of  the  barometer.  It 
is  here  that  the  newly  arrived  guest  waits  un- 
til he  has  time  to  open  the  door  leading  to  the 
Bar. 

The  bar-room  forms  the  largest  part  of  the 
hotel.  It  constitutes  the  hotel  proper.  To  it 
are  attached  a  series  of  bedrooms  on  the  floor 
above,  many  of  which  contain  beds. 

172 


A  Study  in  Still  Life 


The  walls  of  the  bar-room  are  perforated  in 
all  directions  with  trap-doors.  Through  one 
of  these  drinks  are  passed  into  the  back  sit- 
ting-room. Through  others  drinks  are  passed 
into  the  passages.  Drinks  are  also  passed 
through  the  floor  and  through  the  ceiling. 
Drinks  once  passed  never  return.  The  Pro- 
prietor stands  in  the  doorway  of  the  bar.  He 
weighs  two  hundred  pounds.  His  face  is  im- 
movable as  putty.  He  is  drunk.  He  has  been 
drunk  for  twelve  years.  It  makes  no  difference 
to  him.  Behind  the  bar  stands  the  Bar-tender. 
He  wears  wicker-sleeves,  his  hair  is  curled  in 
a  hook,  and  his  name  is  Charlie. 

Attached  to  the  bar  is  a  pneumatic  beer- 
pump,  by  means  of  which  the  bar-tender  can 
flood  the  bar  with  beer.  Afterwards  he  wipes 
up  the  beer  with  a  rag.  By  this  means  he  pol- 
ishes the  bar.  Some  of  the  beer  that  is  pumped 
up  spills  into  glasses  and  has  to  be  sold. 

Behind  the  bar-tender  is  a  mechanism  called 
a  cash-register,  which,  on  being  struck  a  power- 
ful blow,  rings  a  bell,  sticks  up  a  card  marked 
No  SALE,  and  opens  a  till  from  which  the  bar- 
tender distributes  money. 

There  is  printed  a  tariff  of  drinks  and  prices, 
on  the  wall. 


Literary  Lapses 


It  reads  thus : 

Beer  ...  5  cents. 


Whisky    . 
Whisky  and   Soda 
Beer  and  Soda  . 
Whisky  and  Beer  and  Soda 
Whisky  and  Eggs 
Beer  and  Eggs  . 
Champagne  . 
Cigars 
Cigars,  extra  fine  . 


5  cents. 
5  cents. 
5  cents. 
5  cents. 
5  cents. 
5  cents. 
5  cents. 
5  cents. 
5  cents. 


All  calculations  are  made  on  this  basis  and 
are  worked  out  to  three  places  of  decimals. 
Every  seventh  drink  is  on  the  house  and  is  not 
followed  by  a  distribution  of  money. 

The  bar-room  closes  at  midnight,  provided 
there  are  enough  people  in  it.  If  there  is  not 
a  quorum  the  proprietor  waits  for  a  better 
chance.  A  careful  closing  of  the  bar  will  often 
catch  as  many  as  twenty-five  people.  The  bar 
is  not  opened  again  till  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  after  that  the  people  may  go  home. 
There  are  also,  nowadays,  Local  Option  Ho- 
tels. These  contain  only  one  entrance,  leading 
directly  into  the  bar. 


174 


An  Experiment  with  Policeman  Hog  an 

MR.  SCALPER  sits  writing  in  the 
reporters'  room  of  The  Daily 
Eclipse.  The  paper  has  gone  to 
press  and  he  is  alone;  a  wayward 
talented  gentleman,  this  Mr.  Scalper,  and 
employed  by  The  Eclipse  as  a  delineator  of 
character  from  handwriting.  Any  subscriber 
who  forwards  a  specimen  of  his  handwriting 
is  treated  to  a  prompt  analysis  of  his  character 
from  Mr.  Scalper's  facile  pen.  The  literary 
genius  has  a  little  pile  of  correspondence  be- 
side him,  and  is  engaged  in  the  practice  of  his 
art.  Outside  the  night  is  dark  and  rainy.  The 
clock  on  the  City  Hall  marks  the  hour  of  two. 
In  front  of  the  newspaper  office  Policeman 
Hogan  walks  drearily  up  and  down  his  beat. 
The  damp  misery  of  Hogan  is  intense.  A 
belated  gentleman  in  clerical  attire,  returning 
home  from  a  bed  of  sickness,  gives  him  a  side- 
look  of  timid  pity  and  shivers  past.  Hogan 
follows  the  retreating  figure  with  his  eye; 
then  draws  forth  a  notebook  and  sits  down  on 
the  steps  of  The  Eclipse  building  to  write  in  the 

I7S 


Literary  Lapses 


light  of  the  gas  lamp.  Gentlemen  of  nocturnal 
habits  have  often  wondered  what  it  is  that 
Policeman  Hogan  and  his  brethren  write  in 
their  little  books.  Here  are  the  words  that  are 
fashioned  by  the  big  fist  of  the  policeman: 

"Two  o'clock.  All  is  well.  There  is  a  light 
in  Mr.  Scalper's  room  above.  The  night  is 
very  wet  and  I  am  unhappy  and  cannot  sleep — 
my  fourth  night  of  insomnia.  Suspicious- 
looking  individual  just  passed.  Alas,  how  mel- 
ancholy is  my  life !  Will  the  dawn  never  break ! 
Oh,  moist,  moist  stone." 

Mr.  Scalper  up  above  is  writing  too,  writing 
with  the  careless  fluency  of  a  man  who  draws 
his  pay  by  the  column.  He  is  delineating  with 
skill  and  rapidity.  The  reporters'  room  is 
gloomy  and  desolate.  Mr.  Scalper  is  a  man 
of  sensitive  temperament  and  the  dreariness1 
of  his  surroundings  depresses  him.  He  opens 
the  letter*  of  a  correspondent,  examines  the 
handwriting  narrowly,  casts  his  eye  around 
the  room  for  inspiration,  and  proceeds  to 
delineate : 

"G.H.  You  have  an  unhappy,  despondent 
nature;  your  circumstances  oppress  you,  and 
your  life  is  filled  with  an  infinite  sadness.  You 

feel  that  you  are  without  hope " 

176 


An  Experiment  with  Policeman  Hogan 

Mr.  Scalper  pauses,  takes  another  look 
around  the  room,  and  finally  lets  his  eye  rest 
for  some  time  upon  a  tall  black  bottle  that 
stands  on  the  shelf  of  an  open  cupboard.  Then 
he  goes  on: 

" — and  you  have  lost  all  belief  in  Christianity 
and  a  future  world  and  human  virtue.  You 
are  very  weak  against  temptation,  but  there  is 
an  ugly  vein  of  determination  in  your  character, 
when  you  make  up  your  mind  that  you  are  going 
to  have  a  thing " 

Here  Mr.  Scalper  stops  abruptly,  pushes 
back  his  chair,  and  dashes  across  the  room  to 
the  cupboard.  He  takes  the  black  bottle  from 
the  shelf,  applies  it  to  his  lips,  and  remains  for 
some  time  motionless.  He  then  returns  to 
finish  the  delineation  of  G.H.  with  the  hurried 
words : 

"On  the  whole  I  recommend  you  to  per- 
severe; you  are  doing  very  well."  Mr. 
Scalper's  next  proceeding  is  peculiar.  He  takes 
from  the  cupboard  a  roll  of  twine,  about  fifty 
feet  in  length,  and  attaches  one  end  of  it  to 
the  neck  of  the  bottle.  Going  then  to  one  of 
the  windows,  he  opens  it,  leans  out,  and  whistles 
softly.  The  alert  ear  of  Policeman  Hogan  on 
the  pavement  below  catches  the  sound,  and 
177 


Literary  Lapses 


he  returns  it.  The  bottle  is  lowered  to  the 
end  of  the  string,  the  guardian  of  the  peace 
applies  it  to  his  gullet,  and  for  some  time  the 
policeman  and  the  man  of  letters  remain 
attached  by  a  cord  of  sympathy.  Gentlemen 
who  lead  the  variegated  life  of  Mr.  Scalper 
find  it  well  to  propitiate  the  arm  of  the  law, 
and  attachments  of  this  sort  are  not  uncommon. 
Mr.  Scalper  hauls  up  the  bottle,  closes  the 
window,  and  returns  to  his  task;  the  police- 
man resumes  his  walk  with  a  glow  of  internal 
satisfaction.  A  glance  at  the  City  Hall  clock 
causes  him  to  enter  another  note  in  his  book. 

"Half-past  two.  All  is  better.  The  weather 
is  milder  with  a  feeling  of  young  summer  in  the 
air.  Two  lights  in  Mr.  Scalper's  room.  Noth- 
ing has  occurred  which  need  be  brought  to  the 
notice  of  the  roundsman." 

Things  are  going  better  upstairs  too.  The 
delineator  opsns  a  second  envelope,  surveys 
the  writing  of  The  correspondent  with  a  critical 
yet  charitable  eye,  and  writes  with  more  com- 
placency. 

"William  H.  Your  writing  shows  a  dis- 
position which,  though  naturally  melancholy, 
is  capable  of  a  temporary  cheerfulness.  You 
have  known  misfortune  but  have  made  up 

178 


An  Experiment  with  Policeman  Hogan 

your  mind  to  look  on  the  bright  side  of  things. 
If  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  you  indulge  in 
liquor  but  are  quite  moderate  in  your  use  of 
it.  Be  assured  that  no  harm  ever  comes  of 
this  moderate  use.  It  enlivens  the  intellect, 
brightens  the  faculties,  and  stimulates  the 
dormant  fancy  into  a  pleasurable  activity.  It 

is  only  when  carried  to  excess " 

At  this  point  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Scalper, 
who  had  been  writing  very  rapidly,  evidently 
become  too  much  for  him.  He  starts  up  from, 
his  chair,  rushes  two  or  three  times  around 
the  room,  and  finally  returns  to  finish  the  de- 
lineation thus:  "it  is  only  when  carried  to 
excess  that  this  moderation  becomes  per- 


nicious." 


Mr.  Scalper  succumbs  to  the  train  of  thought 
suggested  and  gives  an  illustration  of  how  mod- 
eration to  excess  may  be  avoided,  after  which 
he  lowers  the  bottle  to  Policeman  Hogan  with 
a  cheery  exchange  of  greetings. 

The  half-hours  pass  on.  The  delineator  is 
writing  busily  and  feels  that  he  is  writing  well. 
The  characters  of  his  correspondents  lie  bare 
to  his  keen  eye  and  flow  from  his  facile  pen. 
From  time  to  time  he  pauses  and  appeals  to  the 
source  of  his  inspiration;  his  humanity  prompts 
179 


Ldterary  Lapses 


him  to  extend  the  inspiration  to  Policeman  Ho- 
gan.  The  minion  of  the  law  walks  his  beat  with 
a  feeling  of  more  than  tranquillity.  A  solitary 
Chinaman,  returning  home  late  from  his  mid- 
night laundry,  scuttles  past.  The  literary  in- 
stinct has  risen  strong  in  Hogan  from  his  con- 
nection with  the  man  of  genius  above  him,  and 
the  passage  of  the  lone  Chinee  gives  him  oc- 
casion to  write  in  his  book: 

"Four-thirty.  Everything  is  simply  great. 
There  are  four  lights  in  Mr.  Scalper's  room. 
Mild,  balmy  weather  with  prospects  of  an 
earthquake,  which  may  be  held  in  check  by 
walking  with  extreme  caution.  Two  Chinamen 
have  just  passed — mandarins,  I  presume.  Their 
walk  was  unsteady,  but  their  faces  so  benign 
as  to  disarm  suspicion." 

Up  in  the  office  Mr.  Scalper  has  reached  the 
letter  of  a  correspondent  which  appears  to  give 
him  particular  pleasure,  for  he  delineates  the 
character  with  a  beaming  smile  of  satisfaction. 
To  the  unpractised  eye  the  writing  resembles  the 
prim,  angular  hand  of  an  elderly  spinster.  Mr. 
Scalper,  however,  seems  to  think  otherwise,  for 
he  writes: 

"Aunt  Dorothea.  You  have  a  merry, 
rollicking  nature.  At  times  you  are  seized 

180 


An  Experiment  imth  Policeman  Hog  an 

with  a  wild,  tumultuous  hilarity  to  which  you 
give  ample  vent  in  shouting  and  song.  You 
are  much  addicted  to  profanity,  and  you  rightly 
feel  that  this  is  part  of  your  nature  and  you 
must  not  check  it.  The  world  is  a  very  bright 
place  to  you,  Aunt  Dorothea.  Write  to  me 
again  soon.  Our  minds  seem  cast  in  the  same 
mould." 

Mr.  Scalper  seems  to  think  that  he  has  not 
done  full  justice  to  the  subject  he  is  treating, 
for  he  proceeds  to  write  a  long  private  letter 
to  Aunt  Dorothea  in  addition  to  the  printed 
delineation.  As  he  finishes  the  City  Hall  clock 
points  to  five,  and  Policeman  Hogan  makes 
the  last  entry  in  his  chronicle.  Hogan  has  seat- 
ed himself  upon  the  steps  of  The  Eclipse  build- 
ing for  greater  comfort  and  writes  with  a  slow, 
leisurely  fist: 

"The  other  hand  of  the  clock  points  north 
and  the  second  longest  points  south-east  by 
south.  I  infer  that  it  is  five  o'clock.  The 
electric  lights  in  Mr.  Scalper's  room  defy  the 
eye.  The  roundsman  has  passed  and  examined 
my  notes  of  the  night's  occurrences.  They 
are  entirely  satisfactory,  and  he  is  pleased  with 
their  literary  form.  The  earthquake  which  I 
apprehended  was  reduced  to  a  few  minor 
181 


Literary  Lapses 


oscillations  which  cannot  reach  me  where  I 
sit " 

The  lowering  of  the  bottle  interrupts  Police- 
man Hogan.  The  long  letter  to  Aunt  Doro- 
thea has  cooled  the  ardour  of  Mr.  Scalper. 
The  generous  blush  has  passed  from  his  mind 
and  he  has  been  trying  in  vain  to  restore  it. 
To  afford  Hogan  a  similar  opportunity,  he 
decides  not  to  haul  the  bottle  up  immediately, 
but  to  leave  it  in  his  custody  while  he  delineates 
a  character.  The  writing  of  this  correspondent 
would  seem  to  the  inexperienced  eye  to  be 
that  of  a  timid  little  maiden  in  her  teens.  Mr. 
Scalper  is  not  to  be  deceived  by  appearances. 
He  shakes  his  head  mournfully  at  the  letter  and 
writes : 

"Little  Emily.  You  have  known  great 
happiness,  but  it  has  passed.  Despondency 
has  driven  you  to  seek  forgetfulness  in  drink. 
Your  writing  shows  the  worst  phase  of  the 
liquor  habit.  I  apprehend  that  you  will 
shortly  have  delirium  tremens.  Poor  little 
Emily!  Do  not  try  to  break  off;  it  is  too 
late." 

Mr.  Scalper  is  visibly  affected  by  his  cor- 
respondent's unhappy  condition.  His  eye  be- 
comes moist,  and  he  decides  to  haul  up  the 


An  Experiment  with  Policeman  Hogan 

bottle  while  there  is  still  time  to  save  Police- 
man Hogan  from  acquiring  a  taste  for  liquor. 
He  is  surprised  and  alarmed  to  find  the  attempt 
to  haul  it  up  ineffectual.  The  minion  of  the 
law  has  fallen  into  a  leaden  slumber,  and  the 
bottle  remains  tight  in  his  grasp.  The  baffled 
delineator  lets  fall  the  string  and  returns  to 
finish  his  task.  Only  a  few  lines  are  now 
required  to  fill  the  column,  but  Mr.  Scalper 
finds  on  examining  the  correspondence  that  he 
has  exhausted  the  subjects.  This,  however,  is 
quite  a  common  occurrence  and  occasions  no 
dilemma  in  the  mind  of  the  talented  gentle- 
man. It  is  his  custom  in  such  cases  to  fill  up 
the  space  with  an  imaginary  character  or  two, 
the  analysis  of  which  is  a  task  most  congenial 
to  his  mind.  He  bows  his  head  in  thought 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  writes  as 
follows : 

"Policeman  H.  Your  hand  shows  great 
firmness;  when  once  set  upon  a  thing  you  are 
not  easily  moved.  But  you  have  a  mean,  grasp- 
ing disposition  and  a  tendency  to  want  more 
than  your  share.  You  have  formed  an  attach- 
ment which  you  hope  will  be  continued  through- 
out life,  but  your  selfishness  threatens  to  sever 
the  bond." 

183 


Literary  Lapses 


Having  written  which,  Mr.  Scalper  arranges 
his  manuscript  for  the  printer  next  day,  dons 
his  hat  and  coat,  and  wends  his  way  home  in 
the  morning  twilight,  feeling  that  his  pay  is 
earned. 


The  Passing  of  the  Poet 


STUDIES  in  what  may  be  termed  col- 
lective   psychology   are    essentially   in 
keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  present 
century.    The  examination  of  the  men- 
tal   tendencies,    the    intellectual   habits    which 
we  display  not  as  individuals,  but  as  members 
of  a  race,  community,  or  crowd,  is  offering  a 
fruitful   field  of  speculation  as  yet  but  little 
exploited.     One  may,  therefore,  not  without 
profit,  pass  in  review  the  relation  of  the  poetic 
instinct  to  the  intellectual  development  of  the 
present  era. 

Not  the  least  noticeable  feature  in  the  psy- 
chological evolution  of  our  time  is  the  rapid 
disappearance  of  poetry.  The  art  of  writing 
poetry,  or  perhaps  more  fairly,  the  habit  of 
writing  poetry,  is  passing  from  us.  The  poet 
is  destined  to  become  extinct. 

To  a  reader  of  trained  intellect  the  initial 
difficulty  at  once  suggests  itself  as  to  what 
is  meant  by  poetry.  But  it  is  needless  to 
quibble  at  a  definition  of  the  term.  It  may 
be  designated,  simply  and  fairly,  as  the  art  of 

185 


Literary  Lapses 


expressing  a  simple  truth  in  a  concealed  form 
of  words,  any  number  of  which,  at  intervals 
greater  or  less,  may  or  may  not  rhyme. 

The  poet,  it  must  be  said,  is  as  old  as  civilisa- 
tion. The  Greeks  had  him  with  them,  stamp- 
ing out  his  iambics  with  the  sole  of  his  foot. 
The  Romans,  too,  knew  him — endlessly  jug- 
gling his  syllables  together,  long  and  short, 
short  and  long,  to  make  hexameters.  This  can 
now  be  done  by  electricity,  but  the  Romans  did 
not  know  it. 

But  it  is  not  my  present  purpose  to  speak 
of  the  poets  of  an  earlier  and  ruder  time.  For 
the  subject  before  us  it  is  enough  to  set  our 
age  in  comparison  with  the  era  that  preceded 
it.  We  have  but  to  contrast  ourselves  with 
our  early  Victorian  grandfathers  to  realise  the 
profound  revolution  that  has  taken  place  in 
public  feeling.  It  is  only  with  an  effort  that 
the  practical  common  sense  of  the  twentieth 
century  can  realise  the  excessive  sentimentality 
of  the  earlier  generation. 

In  those  days  poetry  stood  in  high  and 
universal  esteem.  Parents  read  poetry  to  their 
children.  Children  recited  poetry  to  their 
parents.  And  he  was  a  dullard,  indeed,  who 
did  not  at  least  profess,  in  his  hours  of  idleness, 

186 


The  Passing  of  the  Poet 


to  pour  spontaneous  rhythm  from  his  flowing 
quill. 

Should  one  gather  statistics  of  the  enormous 
production  of  poetry  some  sixty  or  seventy 
years  ago,  they  would  scarcely  appear  credible. 
Journals  and  magazines  teemed  with  it.  Editors 
openly  countenanced  it.  Even  the  daily  press 
affected  it.  Love  sighed  in  home-made  stan- 
zas. Patriotism  rhapsodised  on  the  hustings, 
or  cited  rolling  hexameters  to  an  enraptured 
legislature.  Even  melancholy  death  courted 
his  everlasting  sleep  in  elegant  elegiacs. 

In  that  era,  indeed,  I  know  not  how,  polite 
society  was  haunted  by  the  obstinate  fiction 
that  it  was  the  duty  of  a  man  of  parts  to  ex- 
press himself  from  time  to  time  in  verse.  Any 
special  occasion  of  expansion  or  exuberance, 
of  depression,  torsion,  or  introspection,  was 
sufficient  to  call  it  forth.  So  we  have  poems 
of  dejection,  of  reflection,  of  deglutition,  of 
indigestion. 

Any  particular  psychological  disturbance 
was  enough  to  provoke  an  access  of  poetry. 
The  character  and  manner  of  the  verse  might 
vary  with  the  predisposing  cause.  A  gentle- 
man who  had  dined  too  freely  might  disexpand 
himself  in  a  short  fit  of  lyric  doggerel  in  which 
187 


Literary  Lapses 


"bowl"  and  "soul"  were  freely  rhymed. 
The  morning's  indigestion  inspired  a  long- 
drawn  elegiac,  with  "bier"  and  "tear," 
"mortal"  and  "portal"  linked  in  sonorous 
sadness.  The  man  of  politics,  from  time  to 
time,  grateful  to  an  appreciative  country,  sang 
back  to  it,  "Ho,  Albion,  rising  from  the 
brine!"  in  verse  whose  intention  at  least  was 
meritorious. 

And  yet  it  was  but  a  fiction,  a  purely  ficti- 
tious obligation,  self-imposed  by  a  sentimental 
society.  In  plain  truth,  poetry  came  no  more 
easily  or  naturally  to  the  early  Victorian  than 
to  you  or  me.  The  lover  twanged  his  ob- 
durate harp  in  vain  for  hours  for  the  rhymes 
that  would  not  come,  and  the  man  of  politics 
hammered  at  his  heavy  hexameter  long  indeed 
before  his  Albion  was  finally  "hoed"  into 
shape;  while  the  beer-besotted  convivialist 
cudgelled  his  poor  wits  cold  sober  in  rhyming 
the  light  little  bottle-ditty  that  should  have 
sprung  like  Aphrodite  from  the  froth  of  the 
champagne. 

I  have  before  me  a  pathetic  witness  of  this 
fact.  It  is  the  note-book  once  used  for  the 
random  jottings  of  a  gentleman  of  the  period. 
In  it  I  read:  "Fair  Lydia,  if  my  earthly 

188 


The  Passing  of  the  Poet 


harp."  This  is  crossed  out,  and  below  it 
appears,  "Fair  Lydia,  COULD  my  earthly 
harp."  This  again  is  erased,  and  under  it 
appears,  "FAIR  LYDIA, should  my  earthly  harp." 
This  again  is  struck  out  with  a  despairing  stroke, 
and  amended  to  read:  "Fair  Lydia,  DID  my 
earthly  harp."  So  that  finally,  when  the 
lines  appeared  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine 
(1845)  in  their  ultimate  shape — "Fair  Edith, 
when  with  fluent  pen,"  etc.,  etc. — one  can 
realise  from  what  a  desperate  congelation  the 
fluent  pen  had  been  so  perseveringly  rescued. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  of  the  deleterious 
effect  occasioned  both  to  public  and  private 
morals  by  this  deliberate  exaltation  of  mental 
susceptibility  on  the  part  of  the  early  Vic- 
torian. In  many  cases  we  can  detect  the 
evidences  of  incipient  paresis.  The  undue 
access  of  emotion  frequently  assumed  a  patho- 
logical character.  The  sight  of  a  daisy,  of  a 
withered  leaf  or  an  upturned  sod,  seemed  to 
disturb  the  poet's  mental  equipoise.  Spring 
unnerved  him.  The  lambs  distressed  him. 
The  flowers  made  him  cry.  The  daffodils  made 
him  laugh.  Day  dazzled  him.  Night  fright- 
ened him. 

This    exalted    mood,    combined    with    the 
189 


IMerary  Lapses 


man's  culpable  ignorance  of  the  plainest  prin- 
ciples of  physical  science,  made  him  see  some- 
thing out  of  the  ordinary  in  the  flight  of  a  wa- 
terfowl or  the  song  of  a  skylark.  He  com- 
plained that  he  could  hear  it,  but  not  see  it — a 
phenomenon  too  familiar  to  the  scientific  ob- 
server to  occasion  any  comment. 

In  such  a  state  of  mind  the  most  inconse- 
quential inferences  were  drawn.  One  said  that 
the  brightness  of  the  dawn — a  fact  easily  ex- 
plained by  the  diurnal  motion  of  the  globe — 
showed  him  that  his  soul  was  immortal.  He 
asserted  further  that  he  had,  at  an  earlier  pe- 
riod of  his  life,  trailed  bright  clouds  behind 
him.  This  was  absurd. 

With  the  disturbance  thus  set  up  in  the 
nervous  system  were  coupled,  in  many  in- 
stances, mental  aberrations,  particularly  in 
regard  to  pecuniary  matters.  "Give  me  not 
silk,  nor  rich  attire,"  pleaded  one  poet  of  the 
period  to  the  British  public,  "nor  gold  nor 
jewels  rare."  Here  was  an  evident  hallucina- 
tion that  the  writer  was  to  become  the  re- 
cipient of  an  enormous  secret  subscription. 
Indeed,  the  earnest  desire  NOT  to  be  given 
gold  was  a  recurrent  characteristic  of  the 
poetic  temperament.  The  repugnance  to 

190 


The  Passing  of  the  Poet 


accept  even  a  handful  of  gold  was  generally 
accompanied  by  a  desire  for  a  draught  of  pure 
water  or  a  night's  rest. 

It  is  pleasing  to  turn  from  this  excessive  senti- 
mentality of  thought  and  speech  to  the  practi- 
cal and  concise  diction  of  our  time.  We  have 
learned  to  express  ourselves  with  equal  force, 
but  greater  simplicity.  To  illustrate  this  I 
have  gathered  from  the  poets  of  the  earlier 
generation  and  from  the  prose  writers  of  to- 
day parallel  passages  that  may  be  fairly  set  in 
contrast.  Here,  for  example,  is  a  passage  from 
the  poet  Grey,  still  familiar  to  scholars: 

"Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  honour's  voice  invoke  the  silent  dust 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ?" 

Precisely  similar  in  thought,  though  different 
in  form,  is  the  more  modern  presentation  found 
in  Huxley's  Physiology: 

"Whether  after  the  moment  of  death  the 
ventricles  of  the  heart  can  be  again  set  in  move- 
ment by  the  artificial  stimulus  of  oxygen,  is  a 
question  to  which  we  must  impose  a  decided 
negative." 

How  much  simpler,  and  yet  how  far  superior 
191 


Literary  Lapses 


to  Grey's  elaborate  phraseology!  Huxley  has 
here  seized  the  central  point  of  the  poet's 
thought,  and  expressed  it  with  the  dignity  and 
precision  of  exact  science. 

I  cannot  refrain,  even  at  the  risk  of  needless 
iteration,  from  quoting  a  further  example.  It 
is  taken  from  the  poet  Burns.  The  original 
dialect  being  written  in  inverted  hiccoughs,  is 
rather  difficult  to  reproduce.  1 1  describes  the 
scene  attendant  upon  the  return  of  a  cottage 
labourer  to  his  home  on  Saturday  night: 

"The  cheer fu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face 
They  round  the  ingle  form  in  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha'  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride: 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  Ijart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare: 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  wi'  judeecious  care." 

Now  I  find  almost  the  same  scene  described 
in  more  apt  phraseology  in  the  police  news  of 
the  Dumfries  Chronicle  (October  3,  xi 909), 
thus:  "It  appears  that  the  prisoner  had  re- 
turned to  his  domicile  at  the  usual  hour,  and, 
after  partaking  of  a  hearty  meal,  had  seated 
himself  on  his  oaken  settle,  for  the  ostensible 
purpose  of  reading  the  Bible.  It  was  while 

192 


The  Passing  of  the  Poet 


so  occupied  that  his  arrest  was  effected."  With 
the  trifling  exception  that  Burns  omits  all  men- 
tion of  the  arrest,  for  which,  however,  the 
whole  tenor  of  the  poem  gives  ample  warrant, 
the  two  accounts  are  almost  identical. 

In  all  that  I  have  thus  said  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  misunderstood.  Believing,  as  I  firmly  do, 
that  the  poet  is  destined  to  become  extinct, 
I  am  not  one  of  those  who  would  accelerate 
his  extinction.  The  time  has  not  yet  come  for 
remedial  legislation,  or  the  application  of  the 
criminal  law.  Even  in  obstinate  cases  where 
pronounced  delusions  in  reference  to  plants, 
animals,  and  natural  phenomena  are  seen  to 
exist,  it  is  better  that  we  should  do  nothing 
that  might  occasion  a  mistaken  remorse.  The 
inevitable  natural  evolution  which  is  thus  shap- 
ing the  mould  of  human  thought  may  safely  be 
left  to  its  own  course. 


193 


Self-made  Men 


I 


were  both  what  we  commonly 
call  successful  business  men — men 
with  well-fed  faces,  heavy  signet 
rings  on  fingers  like  sausages,  and 
broad,  comfortable  waistcoats,  a  yard  and  a 
half  round  the  equator.  They  were  seated 
opposite  each  other  at  a  table  of  a  first-class 
restaurant,  and  had  fallen  into  conversation 
while  waiting  to  give  their  order  to  the  waiter. 
Their  talk  had  drifted  back  to  their  early  days 
and  how  each  had  made  his  start  in  life  when 
he  first  struck  New  York. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Jones,"  one  of  them  was 
saying,  "I  shall  never  forget  my  first  few 
years  in  this  town.  By  George,  it  was  pretty 
uphill  work!  Do  you  know,  sir,  when  I  first 
struck  this  place,  I  hadn't  more  than  fifteen 
cents  to  my  name,  hadn't  a  rag  except  what  I 
stood  up  in,  and  all  the  place  I  had  to  sleep  in 
— you  won't  believe  it,  but  it's  a  gospel  fact 
just  the  same — was  an  empty  tar  barrel.  No, 
sir,"  he  went  on,  leaning  back  and  closing  up  his 
eyes  into  an  expression  of  infinite  experience, 

194 


Self-made  Men 


"no,  sir,  a  fellow  accustomed  to  luxury  like 
you  has  simply  no  idea  what  sleeping  out  in  a 
tar  barrel  and  all  that  kind  of  thing  is  like." 

"My  dear  Robinson,"  the  other  man  re- 
joined briskly,  "if  you  imagine  I've  had  no 
experience  of  hardship  of  that  sort,  you  never 
made  a  bigger  mistake  in  your  life.  Why, 
when  I  first  walked  into  this  town  I  hadn't  a 
cent,  sir,  not  a  cent,  and  as  for  lodging,  all 
the  place  I  had  for  months  and  months  was 
an  old  piano  box  up  a  lane,  behind  a  factory. 
Talk  about  hardship,  I  guess  I  had  it  pretty 
rough!  You  take  a  fellow  that's  used  to  a 
good  warm  tar  barrel  and  put  him  into  a  piano 
box  for  a  night  or  two,  and  you'll  see  mighty 
soon " 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Robinson  broke  in  with 
some  irritation,  "you  merely  show  that  you 
don't  know  what  a  tar  barrel's  like.  Why,  on 
winter  nights,  when  you'd  be  shut  in  there  in 
your  piano  box  just  as  snug  as  you  please,  I 
used  to  lie  awake  shivering,  with  the  draught 
fairly  running  in  at  the  bunghole  at  the  back." 

"Draught!"  sneered  the  other  man,  with  a 
provoking  laugh,  "draught!  Don't  talk  to  me 
about  draughts.  This  box  I  speak  of  had  a 
whole  darned  plank  off  it,  right  on  the  north  side 

195 


Laterary  Lapses 


too.  I  used  to  sit  there  studying  in  the  even- 
ings, and  the  snow  would  blow  in  a  foot  deep. 
And  yet,  sir,"  he  continued  more  quietly, 
"though  I  know  you'll  not  believe  it,  I  don't 
mind  admitting  that  some  of  the  happiest 
days  of  my  life  were  spent  in  that  same  old 
box.  Ah,  those  were  good  old  times !  Bright, 
innocent  days,  I  can  tell  you.  I'd  wake  up  there 
in  the  mornings  and  fairly  shout  with  high 
spirits.  Of  course,  you  may  not  be  able  to  stand 
that  kind  of  life " 

"Not  stand  it!"  cried  Robinson  fiercely; 
"me  not  stand  it!  By  gad!  I'm  made  for 
it.  I  just  wish  I  had  a  taste  of  the  old  life 
again  for  a  while.  And  as  for  innocence ! 
Well,  I'll  bet  you  you  weren't  one-tenth  as 
innocent  as  I  was;  no,  nor 'one-fifth,  nor  one- 
third  I  What  a  grand  old  life  it  was !  You'll 
swear  this  is  a  darned  lie  and  refuse  to  believe 
it — but  I  can  remember  evenings  when  I'd 
have  two  or  three  fellows'  in,  and  we'd  sit 
round  and  play  pedro  by  a  candle  half  the 
night." 

"Two  or  three!"  laughed  Jones;  "why, 
my  dear  fellow,  I've  known  half  a  dozen  of  us 
to  sit  down  to  supper  in  my  piano  box,  and 
have  a  game  of  pedro  afterwards;  yes,  and 

106 


Self-made  Men 


charades  and  forfeits,  and  every  other  darned 
thing.  Mighty  good  suppers  they  were  too! 
By  Jove,  Robinson,  you  fellows  round  this 
town  who  have  ruined  your  digestions  with 
high  living,  have  no  notion  of  the  zest  with 
which  a  man  can  sit  down  to  a  few  potato 
peelings,  or  a  bit  of  broken  pie  crust,  or " 

"Talk  about  hard  food,"  interrupted  the 
other,  "I  guess  I  know  all  about  that.  Many's 
the  time  I've  breakfasted  off  a  little  cold 
porridge  that  somebody  was  going  to  throw 
away  from  a  back-door,  or  that  I've  gone 
round  to  a  livery  stable  and  begged  a  little 
bran  mash  that  they  intended  for  the  pigs. 
I'll  venture  to  say  I've  eaten  more  hog's 
food " 

"Hog's  food!"  shouted  Robinson,  striking 
his  fist  savagely  on  the  table,  "I  tell  you  hog's 
food  suits  me  better  than " 

He  stopped  speaking  with  a  sudden  grunt 
of  surprise  as  the  waiter  appeared  with  the 
question : 

"What  may  I  bring  you  for  dinner,  gentle- 
men?" 

"Dinner!"  said  Jones,  after  a  moment  of 
silence,    "dinner!     Oh,    anything,    nothing — I 
never  care  what  I  eat — give  me  a  little  cold 
197 


Literary  Lapses 


porridge,  if  you've  got  it,  or  a  chunk  of  salt 
pork — anything  you  like,  it's  all  the  same  to 


me." 


The  waiter  turned  with  an  impassive  face  to 
Robinson. 

"You  can  bring  me  some  of  that  cold  por- 
ridge too,"  he  said,  with  a  defiant  look  at 
Jones;  "yesterday's,  if  you  have  it,  and  a  few 
potato  peelings  and  a  glass  of  skim  milk." 

There  was  a  pause.  Jones  sat  back  in  his 
chair  and  looked  hard  across  at  Robinson.  For 
some  moments  the  two  men  gazed  into  each 
other's  eyes  with  a  stern,  defiant  intensity. 
Then  Robinson  turned  slowly  round  in  his 
seat  and  beckoned  to  the  waiter,  who  was 
moving  off  with  the  muttered  order  on  his 
lips. 

"Here,  waiter,"  he  said  with  a  savage 
scowl,  "I  guess  I'll  change  that  order  a  little. 
Instead  of  that  cold  porridge  I'll  take — urn, 
yes — a  little  hot  partridge.  And  you  might  as 
well  bring  me  an  oyster  or  two  on  the  half 
shell,  and  a  mouthful  of  soup  (mock-turtle, 
consomme,  anything),  and  perhaps  you  might 
fetch  along  a  dab  of  fish,  and  a  little  peck  of 
Stilton,  and  a  grape,  or  a  walnut." 

The  waiter  turned  to  Jones. 
198 


Self-made  Men 


"I  guess  I'll  take  the  same,"  he  said  simply, 
and  added,  "and  you  might  bring  a  quart  of 
champagne  at  the  same  time." 

And  nowadays,  when  Jones  and  Robinson 
meet,  the  memory  of  the  tar  barrel  and  the 
piano  box  is  buried  as  far  out  of  sight  as  a 
home  for  the  blind  under  a  landslide. 


A  Model  Dialogue 


IN  which  is  shown  how  the  drawing-room 
juggler  may  be  permanently  cured  of  his 
card  trick. 
The  drawing-room  juggler,  iiaving  sly- 
ly got  hold  of  the  pack  of  cards  at  the  end  of 
the  game  of  whist,  says : 

"Ever  see  any  card  tricks?     Here's  rather 
a  good  one;  pick  a  card." 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  want  a  card." 

"No,  but  just  pick  one,  any  one  you  like, 
and  I'll  tell  which  one  you  pick." 

"You'll  tell  who?" 

"No,  no ;  I  mean,  I'll  know  which  it  is,  don't 
you  see?    Go  on  now,  pick  a  card." 

"Any  one  I  like?" 

"Yes." 

"Any  colour  at  all?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Any  suit?" 

"Oh,  yes;  do  go  on." 

"Well,  let  me  see,  I'll — pick — the — ace  of 
spades." 

200 


A  Model  Dialogue 


"Great  Caesar !  I  mean  you  are  to  pull  a  card 
out  of  the  pack." 

"Oh,  to  pull  it  out  of  the  pack!  Now  I  un- 
derstand. Hand  me  the  pack.  All  right — I've 
got  it." 

"Have  you  picked  one?" 

"Yes,  it's  the  three  of  hearts.  Did  you  know- 
it?" 

"Hang  it!  Don't  tell  me  like  that.  You 
spoil  the  thing.  Here,  try  again.  Pick  a  card." 

"All  right,  I've  got  it." 

"Put  it  back  in  the  pack.  Thanks.  (Shuffle, 
shuffle,  shuffle — flip) — There,  is  that  it?"  (tri- 
umphantly) . 

"I  don't  know.     I  lost  sight  of  it." 

"Lost  sight  of  it!  Confound  it,  you  have 
to  look  at  it  and  see  what  it  is." 

"Oh,  you  want  me  to  look  at  the  front  of  it  I" 

"Why,  of  course !     Now  then,  pick  a  card." 

"All  right.  I've  picked  it.  Go  ahead." 
(Shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle— flip.)1 

"Say,  confound  you,  did  you  put  that  card 
back  in  the  pack?" 

"Why,  no.    I  kept  it." 

"Holy  Moses  I  Listen.  Pick — a — card— 
just  one — look  at  it — see  what  it  is — then  put 
it  back — do  you  understand  ?" 

201 


Uiterary  Lapses 


"Oh,  perfectly.  Only  I  don't  see  how  you 
are  ever  going  to  do  it.  You  must  be  awfully 
clever." 

(Shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle— flip.) 

"There  you  are;  that's  your  card,  now,  isn't 
it?"  (This  is  the  supreme  moment.) 

"NO.  THAT  IS  NOT  MY  CARD." 
(This  is  a  flat  lie,  but  Heaven  will  pardon  you 
for  it.) 

"Not  that  card  !  !  !  !  Say — just  hold 
on  a  second.  Here,  now,  watch  what  you're 
at  this  time.  I  can  do  this  cursed  thing,  mind 
you,  every  time.  I've  done  it  on  father,  on 
mother,  and  on  every  one  that's  ever  come 
round  our  place.  Pick  a  card.  (Shuffle,  shuffle, 
shuffle  —  flip,  bang.)  There,  that's  your 
card." 

"NO.  I  AM  SORRY.  THAT  IS  NOT 
MY  CARD.  But  won't  you  try  it  again? 
Please  do.  Perhaps  you  are  a  little  excited — 
I'm  afraid  I  was  rather  stupid.  Won't  you 
go  and  sit  quietly  by  yourself  on  the  back 
rerandah  for  half  an  hour  and  then  try?  You 
have  to  go  home  ?  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  It  must 
be  such  an  awfully  clever  little  trick.  Good 
night  1" 


202 


Back  to  the  Bush 


I  HAVE   a    friend   called   Billy,   who  has 
the    Bush    Mania.     By   trade    he    is    a 
doctor,  but  I  do  not  think  that  he  needs 
to    sleep    out    of    doors.      In    ordinary 
things  his  mind  appears  sound.    Over  the  tops 
of  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  as  he  bends  fon 
ward  to  speak  to  you,  there  gleams  nothing  but 
amiability  and  kindliness.     Like  all  the   rest 
of  us  he  is,  or  was  until  he  forgot  it  all,  an 
extremely  well-educated  man. 

I  am  aware  of  no  criminal  strain  in  his  blood. 
Yet  Billy  is  in  reality  hopelessly  unbalanced 
He  has  the  Mania  of  the  Open  Woods. 

Worse  than  that,  he  is  haunted  with  the  de- 
sire to  drag  his  friends  with  him  into  the  depths 
of  the  Bush. 

Whenever  we  meet  he  starts  to  talk  about 
it. 

Not  long  ago  I  met  him  in  the  club. 
"I  wish,"  he  said,  "you'd  let  me  take  you 
clear  away  up  the  Gatineau." 

"Yes,   I  wish  I   would,   I   don't  think,"   I 
203 


Literary  Lapses 


murmured  to  myself,  but  I  humoured  him  and 
said: 

"How  do  we  go,  Billy,  in  a  motor-car  or  by 
train?" 

"No,  we  paddle." 

"And  is  it  up-stream  all  the  way?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Billy  said  enthusiastically. 

"And  how  many  days  do  we  paddle  all  day 
to  get  up?" 

"Six." 

"Couldn't  we  do  it  in  less?" 

"Yes,"  Billy  answered,  feeling  that  I  was 
entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  "if  we 
start  each  morning  just  before  daylight  and 
paddle  hard  till  moonlight,  we  could  do  it  in 
five  days  and  a  half." 

"Glorious!  and  are  there  portages?" 

"Lots  of  them." 

"And  at  each  of  these  do  I  carry  two  hun- 
dred pounds  of  stuff  up  a  hill  on  my  back?" 

"Yes." 

"And  will  there  be  a  guide,  a  genuine,  dirty- 
looking  Indian  guide?" 

"Yes." 

"And  can  I  sleep  next  to  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,  if  you  want  to." 

"And  when  we  get  to  the  top,  what  is  there?" 
204 


Back  to  the  Bush 


"Well,  we  go  over  the  height  of  land." 

"Oh,  we  do,  do  we?  And  is  the  height  of 
land  all  rock  and  about  three  hundred  yards 
up-hill?  And  do  I  carry  a  barrel  of  flour  up 
it?  And  does  it  roll  down  and  crush  me  on 
the  other  side?  Look  here,  Billy,  this  trip 
is  a  great  thing,  but  it  is  too  luxurious  for  me. 
If  you  will  have  me  paddled  up  the  river  in  a 
large  iron  canoe  with  an  awning,  carried  over 
the  portages  in  a  sedan-chair,  taken  across  the 
height  of  land  in  a  palanquin  or  a  howdah, 
and  lowered  down  the  other  side  in  a  derrick, 
I'll  go.  Short  of  that,  the  thing  would  be  too 
fattening." 

Billy  was  discouraged  and  left  me.  But  he 
has  since  returned  repeatedly  to  the  attack. 

He  offers  to  take  me  to  the  head-waters  of 
the  Batiscan.  I  am  content  at  the  foot. 

He  wants  us  to  go  to  the  sources  of  the  At- 
tahwapiscat.  I  don't. 

He  says  I  ought  to  see  the  grand  chutes  of 
the  Kewakasis.  Why  should  I  ? 

I  have  made  Billy  a  counter-proposition  that 
we  strike  through  the  Adirondacks  (in  the 
train)  to  New  York,  from  there  portage  to  At- 
lantic City,  then  to  Washington,  carrying  our 
own  grub  (in  the  dining-car),  camp  there  a  few 
205 


Literary  Lapses 


days  (at  the  Willard),  and  then  back,  I  to 
return  by  train  and  Billy  on  foot  with  the  out- 
fit 

The  thing  is  still  unsettled. 

Billy,  of  course,  is  only  one  of  thousands  that 
have  got  this  mania.  And  the  autumn  is  the 
time  when  it  rages  at  its  worst. 

Every  day  there  move  northward  trains, 
packed  full  of  lawyers,  bankers,  and  brokers, 
headed  for  the  bush.  They  are  dressed  up  to 
look  like  pirates.  They  wear  slouch  hats, 
flannel  shirts,  and  leather  breeches  with  belts. 
They  could  afford  much  better  clothes  than 
these,  but  they  won't  use  them.  I  don't  know 
where  they  get  these  clothes.  I  think  the  rail- 
road lends  them  out.  They  have  guns  between 
their  knees  and  big  knives  at  their  hips.  They 
smoke  the  worst  tobacco  they  can  find,  and 
they  carry  ten  gallons  of  alcohol  per  man  in  the 
baggage  car. 

In  the  intervals  of  telling  lies  to  one  another 
they  read  the  railroad  pamphlets  about  hunt- 
ing. This  kind  of  literature  is  deliberately 
and  fiendishly  contrived  to  infuriate  their 
mania.  I  know  all  about  these  pamphlets 
because  I  write  them.  I  once,  for  instance, 
wrote  up,  from  imagination,  a  little  place 

206 


Back  to  the  Bush 


called  Dog  Lake  at  the  end  of  a  branch  line. 
The  place  had  failed  as  a  settlement,  and  the 
railroad  had  decided  to  turn  it  into  a  hunting 
resort.  I  did  the  turning.  I  think  I  did  it 
rather  well,  rechristening  the  lake  and  stocking 
the  place  with  suitable  varieties  of  game.  The 
pamphlet  ran  like  this. 

"The  limpid  waters  of  Lake  Owatawetness 
(the  name,  according  to  the  old  Indian  legends 
of  the  place,  signifies,  The  Mirror  of  the 
Almighty)  abound  with  every  known  variety 
of  fish.  Near  to  its  surface,  so  close  that  the 
angler  may  reach  out  his  hand  and  stroke  them, 
schools  of  pike,  pickerel,  mackerel,  doggerel, 
and  chickerel  jostle  one  another  in  the  water. 
They  rise  instantaneously  to  the  bait  and  swim 
gratefully  ashore  holding  it  in  their  mouths. 
In  the  middle  depth  of  the  waters  of  the  lake, 
the  sardine,  the  lobster,  the  kippered  herring, 
the  anchovy  and  other  tinned  varieties  of  fish 
disport  themselves  with  evident  gratification, 
while  even  lower  in  the  pellucid  depths  the 
dog-fish,  the  hog-fish,  the  log-fish,  and  the 
sword-fish  whirl  about  in  never-ending 
circles. 

"Nor  is  Lake  Owatawetness  merely  an 
Angler's  Paradise.  Vast  forests  of  primeval 
207 


Literary  Lapses 


pine  slope  to  the  very  shores  of  the  lake,  to 
which  descend  great  droves  of  bears — brown, 
green,  and  bear-coloured — while  as  the  shades 
of  evening  fall,  the  air  is  loud  with  the  lowing 
of  moose,  cariboo,  antelope,  cantelope,  musk- 
oxes,  musk-rats,  and  other  graminivorous  mam- 
malia of  the  forest.  These  enormous  quad- 
rumana  generally  move  off  about  10.30  p.m., 
from  which  hour  until  11.45  P-m-  tne  whole 
shore  is  reserved  for  bison  and  buffalo. 

"After  midnight  hunters  who  so  desire  it  can 
be  chased  through  the  woods,  for  any  distance 
and  at  any  speed  they  select,  by  jaguars, 
panthers,  cougars,  tigers,  and  jackals  whose 
ferocity  is  reputed  to  be  such  that  they  will 
tear  the  breeches  off  a  man  with  their  teeth 
in  their  eagerness  to  sink  their  fangs  in  his 
palpitating  flesh.  Hunters,  attention !  Do  not 
miss  such  attractions  as  these!" 

I  have  seen  men — quiet,  reputable,  well- 
shaved  men — reading  that  pamphlet  of  mine 
in  the  rotundas  of  hotels,  with  their  eyes  blaz- 
ing with  excitement.  I  think  it  is  the  jaguar 
attraction  that  hits  them  the  hardest,  because 
I  notice  them  rub  themselves  sympathetically 
with  their  hands  while  they  read. 

Of  course,  you  can  imagine  the  effect  of  this 
208 


Back  to  the  Bush 


sort  of  literature  on  the  brains  of  men  fresh 
from  their  offices,  and  dressed  out  as  pirates. 

They  just  go  crazy  and  stay  crazy. 

Just  watch  them  when  they  get  into  the 
bush. 

Notice  that  well-to-do  stockbroker  crawling 
about  on  his  stomach  in  the  underbrush,  with 
his  spectacles  shining  like  gig-lamps.  What 
is  he  doing?  He  is  after  a  cariboo  that  isn't 
there.  He  is  "stalking"  it.  With  his  stomach. 
Of  course,  away  down  in  his  heart  he  knows 
that  the  cariboo  isn't  there  and  never  was; 
but  that  man  read  my  pamphlet  and  went 
crazy.  He  can't  help  it:  he's  got  to  stalk 
something.  Mark  him  as  he  crawls  along; 
see  him  crawl  through  a  thimbleberry  bush 
(very  quietly  so  that  the  cariboo  won't  hear 
the  noise  of  the  prickles  going  into  him),  then 
through  a  bee's  nest,  gently  and  slowly,  so  that 
the  cariboo  will  not  take  fright  when  the  bees 
are  stinging  him.  Sheer  woodcraft!  Yes, 
mark  him.  Mark  him  any  way  you  like.  Go 
up  behind  him  and  paint  a  blue  cross  on  the 
seat  of  his  pants  as  he  crawls.  He'll  never 
notice.  He  thinks  he's  a  hunting  dog.  Yet 
this  is  the  man  who  laughs  at  his  little  son  of 
ten  for  crawling  round  under  the  dining-room 
209 


Literary  Lapses 


table  with  a  mat  over  his  shoulders,  and  pre- 
tending to  be  a  bear. 

Now  see  these  other  men  in  camp. 

Someone  has  told  them — I  think  I  first 
started  the  idea  in  my  pamphlet — that  the 
thing  is  to  sleep  on  a  pile  of  hemlock  branches. 
I  think  I  told  them  to  listen  to  the  wind  sow- 
ing (you  know  the  word  I  mean),  sowing  and 
crooning  in  the  giant  pines.  So  there  they  are 
upside-down,  doubled  up  on  a  couch  of  green 
spikes  that  would  have  killed  St.  Sebastian. 
They  stare  up  at  the  sky  with  blood-shot,  rest- 
less eyes,  waiting  for  the  crooning  to  begin. 
And  there  isn't  a  sow  in  sight. 

Here  is  another  man,  ragged  and  with  a 
six  days'  growth  of  beard,  frying  a  piece  of 
bacon  on  a  stick  over  a  little  fire.  Now  what 
does  he  think  he  is?  The  chef  of  the  Waldorf 
Astoria?  Yes,  he  does,  and  what's  more  he 
thinks  that  that  miserable  bit  of  bacon,  cut 
with  a  tobacco  knife  from  a  chunk  of  meat 
that  lay  six  days  in  the  rain,  is  fit  to  eat.  What's 
more,  he'll  eat  it.  So  will  the  rest.  They're 
all  crazy  together. 

There's  another  man,  the  Lord  help  him, 
who  thinks  he  has  the  "knack"  of  being  a 
carpenter.  He  is  hammering  up  shelves  to  a 

2IO 


Back  to  the  Bush 


tree.  Till  the  shelves  fall  down  he  thinks  he 
is  a  wizard.  Yet  this  is  the  same  man  who 
swore  at  his  wife  for  asking  him  to  put  up  a 
shelf  in  the  back  kitchen.  "How  the  blazes," 
he  asked,  "could  he  nail  the  damn  thing  up? 
Did  she  think  he  was  a  plumber?" 

After  all,  never  mind. 

Provided  they  are  happy  up  there,  let  them 
stay. 

Personally,  I  wouldn't  mind  if  they  didn't 
come  back  and  lie  about  it.  They  get  back 
to  the  city  dead  fagged  for  want  of  sleep, 
sogged  with  alcohol,  bitten  brown  by  the  bush- 
flies,  trampled  on  by  the  moose  and  chased 
through  the  brush  by  bears  and  skunks — and 
they  have  the  nerve  to  say  that  they  like  it. 

Sometimes  I  think  they  do. 

Men  are  only  animals  anyway.  They  like  to 
get  out  into  the  woods  and  growl  round  at  night 
and  feel  something  bite  them. 

Only  why  haven't  they  the  imagination  to 
be  able  to  do  the  same  thing  with  less  fuss? 
Why  not  take  their  coats  and  collars  off  in  the 
office  and  crawl  round  on  the  floor  and  growl  at 
one  another.  It  would  be  just  as  good. 


211 


Reflections  on  Riding 


1 


writing  of  this  paper  has  been 
inspired  by  a  debate  recently  held 
at  the  literary  society  of  my  native 
town  on  the  question,  "Resolved: 
that  the  bicycle  is  a  nobler  animal  than  the 
horse."  In  order  to  speak  for  the  negative 
with  proper  authority,  I  have  spent  some  weeks 
in  completely  addicting  myself  to  the  use  of 
the  horse.  I  find  that  the  difference  between 
the  horse  and  the  bicycle  is  greater  than  I  had 
supposed. 

The  horse  is  entirely  covered  with  hair;  the 
bicycle  is  not  entirely  covered  with  hair,  except 
the  '89  model  they  are  using  in  Idaho. 

In  riding  a  horse  the  performer  finds  that 
the  pedals  in  which  he  puts  his  feet  will  not 
allow  of  a  good  circular  stroke.  He  will  ob- 
serve, however,  that  there  is  a  saddle  in  which 
— especially  while  the  horse  is  trotting — he  is 
expected  to  seat  himself  from  time  to  time. 
But  it  is  simpler  to  ride  standing  up,  with  the 
feet  in  the  pedals. 

There  are  no  handles  to  a  horse,  but  the 

212 


Reflections  on  Riding 


1910  model  has  a  string  to  each  side  of  its 
face  for  turning  its  head  when  there  is  anything 
you  want  it  to  see. 

Coasting  on  a  good  horse  is  superb,  but 
should  be  under  control.  I  have  known  a  horse 
to  suddenly  begin  to  coast  with  me  about  two 
miles  from  home,  coast  down  the  main  street 
of  my  native  town  at  a  terrific  rate,  and  finally 
coast  through  a  platoon  of  the  Salvation  Army 
into  its  livery  stable. 

I  cannot  honestly  deny  that  it  takes  a  good 
deal  of  physical  courage  to  ride  a  horse.  This, 
however,  I  have.  I  get  it  at  about  forty  cents 
a  flask,  and  take  it  as  required. 

I  find  that  in  riding  a  horse  up  the  long 
street  of  a  country  town,  it  is  not  well  to 
proceed  at  a  trot.  It  excites  unkindly  comment. 
It  is  better  to  let  the  horse  walk  the  whole  dis- 
tance. This  may  be  made  to  seem  natural  by 
turning  half  round  in  the  saddle  with  the 
hand  on  the  horse's  back,  and  gazing  intently 
about  two  miles  up  the  road.  It  then  appears 
that  you  are  the  first  in  of  about  fourteen 
men. 

Since  learning  to  ride,  I  have  taken  to 
noticing  the  things  that  people  do  on  horse- 
back in  books.  Some  of  these  I  can  manage, 
213 


Literary  Lapses 


but  most  of  them  are  entirely  beyond  me. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  a  form  of  equestrian 
performance  that  every  reader  will  recognise 
and  for  which  I  have  onlv  a  despairing  admira- 
tion: 

"With  a  hasty  gesture  of  farewell,  the  rider 
set  spurs  to  his  horse  and  disappeared  in  a  cloud 
of  dust." 

With  a  little  practice  in  the  matter  of  ad- 
justment, I  think  I  could  set  spurs  to  any  size 
of  horse,  but  I  could  never  disappear  in  a  cloud 
of  dust — at  least,  not  with  any  guarantee  of 
remaining  disappeared  when  the  dust  cleared 
away. 

Here,  however,  is  one  that  I  certainly  can  do : 

"The  bridle-rein  dropped  from  Lord  Ever- 
ard's  listless  hand,  and,  with  his  head  bowed 
upon  his  bosom,  he  suffered  his  horse  to  move 
at  a  foot's  pace  up  the  sombre  avenue.  Deep 
in  thought,  he  heeded  not  the  movement  of  the 
steed  which  bore  him." 

That  is,  he  looked  as  if  he  didn't;  but  in 
my  case  Lord  Everard  has  his  eye  on  the  steed 
pretty  closely,  just  the  same. 

This  next  I  am  doubtful  about: 

"To  horse !  to  horse !"  cried  the  knight,  and 
leaped  into  the  saddle. 

214 


Reflections  on  Riding 


I  think  I  could  manage  it  if  it  read: 
"To  horse!"  cried  the  knight,  and,  snatch- 
ing a  step-ladder  from  the  hands  of  his  trusty 
attendant,  he  rushed  into  the  saddle. 

As  a  concluding  remark,  I  may  mention  that 
my  experience  of  riding  has  thrown  a  very  in- 
teresting sidelight  upon  a  rather  puzzling  point 
in  history.  It  is  recorded  of  the  famous  Henry 
the  Second  that  he  was  "almost  constantly  in 
the  saddle,  and  of  so  restless  a  disposition  that 
he  never  sat  down,  even  at  meals."  I  had 
hitherto  been  unable  to  understand  Henry's  idea 
about  his  meals,  but  I  think  I  can  appreciate  it 
now. 


215 


Saloonio 


A  STUDY  IN  SHAKESPEAREAN  CRITICISM 


1 


say  that  young  men  fresh  from 
college  are  pretty  positive  about 
what  they  know.  But  from  my 
own  experience  of  life,  I  should  say 
that  if  you  take  a  comfortable,  elderly  man  who 
hasn't  been  near  a  college  for  about  twenty 
years,  who  has  been  pretty  liberally  fed  and 
dined  ever  since,  who  measures  about  fifty 
inches  around  the  circumference,  and  has  a 
complexion  like  a  cranberry  by  candlelight, 
you  will  find  that  there  is  a  degree  of  absolute 
certainty  about  what  he  thinks  he  knows  that 
will  put  any  young  man  to  shame.  I  am  spe- 
cially convinced  of  this  from  the  case  of  my 
friend  Colonel  Hogshead,  a  portly,  choleric 
gentleman  who  made  a  fortune  in  the  cattle- 
trade  out  in  Wyoming,  and  who,  in  his  later 
days,  has  acquired  a  chronic  idea  that  the  plays 
of  Shakespeare  are  the  one  subject  upon  which 
he  is  most  qualified  to  speak  personally. 

He  came  across  me  the  other  evening  as  I 
216 


Saloonio 

was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  club  sitting-room 
looking  over  the  leaves  of  The  Merchant  of 
Venice,  and  began  to  hold  forth  to  me  about 
the  book. 

"Merchant  of  Venice,  eh?  There's  a  play 
for  you,  sir!  There's  genius!  Wonderful,  sir, 
wonderful !  You  take  the  characters  in  that  play 
and  where  will  you  find  anything  like 
them?  You  take  Antonio,  take  Sherlock,  take 
Saloonio " 

"Saloonio,  Colonel?"  I  interposed  mildly, 
"aren't  you  making  a  mistake?  There's  a 
Bassanio  and  a  Salanio  in  the  play,  but  I  don't 
think  there's  any  Saloonio,  is  there?" 

For  a  moment  Colonel  Hogshead's  eye  be- 
came misty  with  doubt,  but  he  was  not  the  man 
to  admit  himself  in  error: 

"Tut,  tut!  young  man,"  he  said  with  a  frown, 
"don't  skim  through  your  books  in  that  way. 
No  Saloonio?  Why,  of  course  there's  a  Sa- 
loonio!" 

"But  I  tell  you,  Colonel,"  I  rejoined,  "I've 
just  been  reading  the  play  and  studying  it,  and 
I  know  there's  no  such  character " 

"Nonsense,  sir,  nonsense!"  said  the  Colonel, 
"why  he  comes  in  all  through;  don't  tell  me, 
young  man,  I've  read  that  play  myself.  Yes, 
217 


Literary  Lapses 


and  seen  it  played,  too,  out  in  Wyoming, 
before  you  were  born,  by  fellers,  sir,  that  could 
act.  No  Saloonio,  indeed!  why,  who  is  it 
that  is  Antonio's  friend  all  through  and  won't 
leave  him  when  Bassoonio  turns  against  him? 
Who  rescues  Clarissa  from  Sherlock,  and  steals 
the  casket  of  flesh  from  the  Prince  of  Aragon? 
Who  shouts  at  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  'Out, 
out,  you  damned  candlestick'?  Who  loads 
up  the  jury  in  the  trial  scene  and  fixes  the 
doge?  No  Saloonio!  By  gad!  in  my  opin- 
ion, he's  the  most  important  character  in  the 
play " 

"Colonel  Hogshead,"  I  said  very  firmly, 
"there  isn't  any  Saloonio  and  you  know  it." 

But  the  old  man  had  got  fairly  started  on 
whatever  dim  recollection  had  given  birth  to 
Saloonio;  the  character  seemed  to  grow  more 
and  more  luminous  in  the  Colonel's  mind,  and 
he  continued  with  increasing  animation: 

"I'll  just  tell  you  what  Saloonio  is:  he's  a 
type.  Shakespeare  means  him  to  embody  the 
type  of  the  perfect  Italian  gentleman.  He's 
an  idea,  that's  what  he  is,  he's  a  symbol,  he's 
a  unit " 

Meanwhile  I  had  been  searching  among  the 
leaves  of  the  play.  "Look  here,"  I  said, 

218 


Saloonio 

"here's  the  list  of  the  Dramatis  Personae. 
There's  no  Saloonio  there." 

But  this  didn't  dismay  the  Colonel  one 
atom.  "Why,  of  course  there  isn't,"  he  said. 
"You  don't  suppose  you'd  find  Saloonio  there! 
That's  the  whole  art  of  it!  That's  Shake- 
speare !  That's  the  whole  gist  of  it !  He's  kept 
clean  out  of  the  Persona — gives  him  scope, 
gives  him  a  free  hand,  makes  him  more  of 
a  type  than  ever.  Oh,  it's  a  subtle  thing,  sir, 
the  dramatic  art!"  continued  the  Colonel, 
subsiding  into  quiet  reflection;  "it  takes  a 
feller  quite  a  time  to  get  right  into  Shake- 
speare's mind  and  see  what  he's  at  all  the 
time." 

I  began  to  see  that  there  was  no  use  in 
arguing  any  further  with  the  old  man.  I  left 
him  with  the  idea  that  the  lapse  of  a  little 
time  would  soften  his  views  on  Saloonio.  But 
I  had  not  reckoned  on  the  way  in  which  old 
men  hang  on  to  a  thing.  Colonel  Hogshead 
quite  took  up  Saloonio.  From  that  time  on 
Saloonio  became  the  theme  of  his  constant 
conversation.  He  was  never  tired  of  dis- 
cussing the  character  of  Saloonio,  the  wonder- 
ful art  of  the  dramatist  in  creating  him, 
Saloonio's  relation  to  modern  life,  Saloonio's 
219 


Literary  Lapses 


attitude  toward  women,  the  ethical  significance 
of  Saloonio,  Saloonio  as  compared  with  Ham- 
let, Hamlet  as  compared  with  Saloonio — and 
so  on,  endlessly.  And  the  more  he  looked  into 
Saloonio,  the  more  he  saw  in  him. 

Saloonio  seemed  inexhaustible.  There  were 
new  sides  to  him — new  phases  at  every  turn. 
The  Colonel  even  read  over  the  play,  and  find- 
ing no  mention  of  Saloonio's  name  in  it,  he 
swore  that  the  books  were  not  the  same  books 
they  had  had  out  in  Wyoming;  that  the  whole 
part  had  been  cut  clean  out  to  suit  the  book 
to  the  infernal  public  schools,  Saloonio's 
language  being — at  any  rate,  as  the  Colonel 
quoted  it — undoubtedly  a  trifle  free.  Then 
the  Colonel  took  to  annotating  his  book  at  the 
side  with  such  remarks  as,  "Enter  Saloonio," 
or  "A  tucket  sounds;  enter  Saloonio,  on  the 
arm  of  the  Prince  of  Morocco."  When  there 
was  no  reasonable  excuse  for  bringing  Saloonio 
on  the  stage  the  Colonel  swore  that  he  was 
concealed  behind  the  arras,  or  feasting  within 
with  the  doge. 

But  he  got  satisfaction  at  last.  He  had 
found  that  there  was  nobody  in  our  part  of  the 
country  who  knew  how  to  put  a  play  of 
Shakespeare  on  the  stage,  and  took  a  trip  to 

220 


Saloonio 

New  York  to  see  Sir  Henry  Irving  and  Miss 
Terry  do  the  play.  The  Colonel  sat  and 
listened  all  through  with  his  face  just  beaming 
with  satisfaction,  and  when  the  curtain  fell 
at  the  close  of  Irving's  grand  presentation  of 
the  play,  he  stood  up  in  his  seat  and  cheered 
and  yelled  to  his  friends:  "That's  it!  That's 
him  I  Didn't  you  see  that  man  that  came  on 
the  stage  all  the  time  and  sort  of  put  the  whole 
play  through,  though  you  couldn't  understand 
a  word  he  said?  Well,  that's  himl  That's 
Saloonio  I" 


Half-hours  with  the  Poets 


I.— MR.  WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LITTLE 
COTTAGE  GIRL 

"I  met  a  little  cottage  girl, 

She  was  eight  years  old  she  said, 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head." 

WORDSWORTH. 


1 


is  what  really  happened. 
Over  the   dreary  downs   of  his 
native  Cumberland  the  aged  laureate 
was    wandering    with    bowed    head 
and  countenance  of  sorrow. 

Times  were  bad  with  the  old  man. 
In  the  south  pocket  of  his  trousers,  as  he 
set  his  face  to  the  north,  jingled  but  a  few 
odd  coins  and  a  cheque  for  St.  Leon 
water.  Apparently  his  cup  of  bitterness  was 
full. 

In  the  distance  a  child  moved — a  child  in 
form,  yet  the  deep  lines  upon  her  face  bespoke 
a  countenance  prematurely  old. 

222 


Half -hours  with  the  Poets 


The  poet  espied,  pursued  and  overtook  the 
infant.  He  observed  that  apparently  she  drew 
her  breath  lightly  and  felt  her  life  in  every 
limb,  and  that  presumably  her  acquaintance 
with  death  was  of  the  most  superficial  char- 
acter. 

"I  must  sit  awhile  and  ponder  on  that  child," 
murmured  the  poet.  So  he  knocked  her  down 
with  his  walking-stick  and  seating  himself  upon 
her,  he  pondered. 

Long  he  sat  thus  in  thought.  "His  heart  is 
heavy,"  sighed  the  child. 

At  length  he  drew  forth  a  note-book  and 
pencil  and  prepared  to  write  upon  his  knee. 

"Now  then,  my  dear  young  friend,"  he 
said,  addressing  the  elfin  creature,  "I 
want  those  lines  upon  your  face.  Are  you 
seven?" 

"Yes,  we  are  seven,"  said  the  girl  sadly, 
and  added,  "I  know  what  you  want.  You 
are  going  to  question  me  about  my  afflicted 
family.  You  are  Mr.  Wordsworth,  and  you 
are  collecting  mortuary  statistics  for  the 
Cottagers'  Edition  of  the  Penny  Encyclo- 
paedia." 

"You  are  eight  years  old?"  asked  the 
bard. 

223 


Literary  Lapses 


"I  suppose  so,"  answered  she.  "I  have  been 
eight  years  old  for  years  and  years." 

"And  you  know  nothing  of  death,  of  course?" 
said  the  poet  cheerfully. 

"How  can  I?"  answered  the  child. 

"Now  then,"  resumed  the  venerable  Wil- 
liam, "let  us  get  to  business.  Name  your 
brothers  and  sisters." 

"Let  me  see,"  began  the  child  wearily; 
"there  was  Rube  and  Ike,  two  I  can't  think  of, 
and  John  and  Jane." 

"You  must  not  count  John  and  Jane," 
interrupted  the  bard  reprovingly;  "they're 
dead,  you  know,  so  that  doesn't  make 


seven." 


"I  wasn't  counting  them,  but  perhaps 
I  added  up  wrongly,"  said  the  child;  "and 
will  you  please  move  your  overshoe  off  my 
neck?" 

"Pardon,"  said  the  old  man.  "A  nervous 
trick,  I  have  been  absorbed;  indeed,  the  exi- 
gency of  the  metre  almost  demands  my  dou- 
bling up  my  feet.  To  continue,  however ;  which 
died  first?" 

"The  first  to  go  was  little  Jane,"  said  the 
child. 

"She  lay  moaning  in  bed,  I  presume?" 
224 


Half -hours  with  the  Poets 


"In  bed  she  moaning  lay." 

"What  killed  her?" 

"Insomnia,"  answered  the  girl.  "The  gaiety 
of  our  cottage  life,  previous  to  the  departure 
of  our  elder  brothers  for  Conway,  and  the  con- 
stant field-sports  in  which  she  indulged  with 
John,  proved  too  much  for  a  frame  never  too 
robust." 

"You  express  yourself  well,"  said  the  poet. 
"Now,  in  regard  to  your  unfortunate  brother, 
what  was  the  effect  upon  him  in  the  fol- 
lowing winter  of  the  ground  being  white 
with  snow  and  your  being  able  to  run 
and  slide?" 

"My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go,"  an- 
swered she.  "We  have  been  at  a  loss  to  un- 
derstand the  cause  of  his  death.  We  fear 
that  the  dazzling  glare  of  the  newly  fallen 
snow,  acting  upon  a  restless  brain,  may  have 
led  him  to  a  fatal  attempt  to-  emulate  my 
own  feats  upon  the  ice.  And,  oh,  sir,"  the 
child  went  on,  "speak  gently  of  poor  Jane. 
You  may  rub  it  into  John  all  you  like;  we 
always  let  him  slide." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  bard,  "and  allow  me, 
in  conclusion,  one  rather  delicate  question :    Do 
you  ever  take  your  little  porringer?" 
225 


Literary  Lapses 


"Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  child  frankly — 

"  'Quite  often  after  sunset, 
When  all  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer ' — 

I  can't  quite  remember  what  I  do  after  that, 
but  I  know  that  I  like  it." 

"That  is  immaterial,"  said  Wordsworth.  "I 
can  say  that  you  take  your  little  porringer  neat, 
or  with  bitters,  or  in  water  after  every  meal. 
As  long  as  I  can  state  that  you  take  a  little 
porringer  regularly,  but  never  to  excess,  the 
public  is  satisfied.  And  now,"  rising  from 
his  seat,  "I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer. 
Here  is  sixpence — or  stay,"  he  added  hastily, 
"here  is  a  cheque  for  St.  Leon  water.  Your 
information  has  been  most  valuable,  and 
I  shall  work  it,  for  all  I  am  Words- 
worth." With  these  words  the  aged  poet 
bowed  deferentially  to  the  child  and  sauntered 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land's Arms,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  as 
if  looking  for  the  meanest  flower  that  blows 
itself. 


226 


Half-hours  with  the  Poets 


II.— HOW  TENNYSON  KILLED  THE 
MAY  QUEEN 

"If  you're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 
dear." 

PART  I 

As  soon  as  the  child's  malady  had  declared 
itself  the  afflicted  parents  of  the  May  Queen 
telegraphed  to  Tennyson,  "Our  child  gone 
crazy  on  subject  of  early  rising,  could  you  come 
and  write  some  poetry  about  her?" 

Alfred,  always  prompt  to  fill  orders  in  writ- 
ing from  the  country,  came  down  on  the  eve- 
ning train.  The  old  cottager  greeted  the  poet 
warmly,  and  began  at  once  to  speak  of  the 
state  of  his  unfortunate  daughter. 

"She  was  took  queer  in  May,"  he  said, 
"along  of  a  sort  of  bee  that  the  young  folks 
had ;  she  ain't  been  just  right  since ;  happen  you 
might  do  summat." 

With  these  words  he  opened  the  door  of  an 
inner  room. 

The  girl  lay  in  feverish  slumber.  Beside 
her  bed  was  an  alarm-clock  set  for  half-past 
three.  Connected  with  the  clock  was  an 
227 


Literary  Lapses 


ingenious  arrangement  of  a  falling  brick  with 
a  string  attached  to  the  child's  toe. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  visitor  she  started  up 
in  bed.  "Whoop,"  she  yelled,  "I  am  to  be 
Queen  of  the  May,  mother,  ye-e!" 

Then  perceiving  Tennyson  in  the  doorway, 
"If  that's  a  caller,"  she  said,  "tell  him  to  call 
me  early." 

The  shock  caused  the  brick  to  fall.  In  the 
subsequent  confusion  Alfred  modestly  withdrew 
to  the  sitting-room. 

"At  this  rate,"  he  chuckled,  "I  shall  not  have 
long  to  wait.  A  few  weeks  of  that  strain  will 
finish  her." 

PART  II 

Six  months  had  passed. 

It  was  now  mid-winter. 

And  still  the  girl  lived.  Her  vitality  appeared 
inexhaustible. 

She  got  up  earlier  and  earlier.  She  now  rose 
yesterday  afternoon. 

At  intervals  she  seemed  almost  sane,  and 
spoke  in  a  most  pathetic  manner  of  her  grave 
and  the  probability  of  the  sun  shining  on 


Half-hours  with  the  Poets 


it  early  in  the  morning,  and  her  mother  walking 
on  it  later  in  the  day.  At  other  times  her  mal- 
ady would  seize  her,  and  she  would  snatch  the 
brick  off  the  string  and  throw  it  fiercely  at  Ten- 
nyson. Once,  in  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  mad- 
ness, she  gave  her  sister  Effie  a  half-share  in 
her  garden  tools  and  an  interest  in  a  box  of 
mignonette. 

The  poet  stayed  doggedly  on.  In  the 
chill  of  the  morning  twilight  he  broke  the 
ice  in  his  water-basin  and  cursed  the  girl.  But 
he  felt  that  he  had  broken  the  ice  and  he 
stayed. 

On  the  whole,  life  at  the  cottage,  though 
rugged,  was  not  cheerless.  In  the  long 
winter  evenings  they  would  gather  around 
a  smoking  fire  of  peat,  while  Tennyson  read 
aloud  the  Idylls  of  the  King  to  the  rude 
old  cottager.  Not  to  show  his  rudeness, 
the  old  man  kept  awake  by  sitting  on  a  tin- 
tack.  This  also  kept  his  mind  on  the  right 
tack.  The  two  found  that  they  had  much 
in  common,  especially  the  old  cottager.  They 
called  each  other  "Alfred"  and  "Hezekiah" 
now. 


229 


Literary  Lapses 


PART  III 

Time  moved  on  and  spring  came. 

Still  the  girl  baffled  the  poet. 

"I  thought  to  pass  away  before,"  she  would 
say  with  a  mocking  grin,  "but  yet  alive  I  am, 
Alfred,  alive  I  am." 

Tennyson  was  fast  losing  hope. 

Worn  out  with  early  rising,  they  engaged 
a  retired  Pullman-car  porter  to  take  up  his 
quarters,  and  being  a  negro  his  presence  added 
a  touch  of  colour  to  their  life. 

The  poet  also  engaged  a  neighbouring  divine 
at  fifty  cents  an  evening  to  read  to  the  child 
the  best  hundred  books,  with  explanations.  The 
May  Queen  tolerated  him,  and  used  to  like  to 
play  with  his  silver  hair,  but  protested  that  he 
was  prosy. 

At  the  end  of  his  resources  the  poet  resolved 
upon  desperate  measures. 

He  chose  an  evening  when  the  cottager  and 
his  wife  were  out  at  a  dinner-party. 

At  nightfall  Tennyson  and  his  accomplices 
entered  the  girl's  room. 

She  defended  herself  savagely  with  her  brick, 
but  was  overpowered. 

230 


Half-hours  with  the  Poets 


The  negro  seated  himself  upon  her  chest, 
while  the  clergyman  hastily  read  a  few  verses 
about  the  comfort  of  early  rising  at  the  last 
day. 

As  he  concluded,  the  poet  drove  his  pen  into 
her  eye. 

"Last  call  I"  cried  the  negro  porter  triumph- 
antly. 

III.— OLD  MR.  LONGFELLOW  ON  BOARD 
THE  HESPERUS 

"It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus  that  sailed  the  wintry 

sea, 

And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter  to  bear 
him  company." — LONGFELLOW. 

There  were  but  three  people  in  the  cabin 
party  of  the  Hesperus:  old  Mr.  Longfellow, 
the  skipper,  and  the  skipper's  daughter. 

The  skipper  was  much  attached  to  the  child, 
owing  to  the  singular  whiteness  of  her  skin  and 
the  exceptionally  limpid  blue  of  her  eyes; 
she  had  hitherto  remained  on  shore  to 
fill  lucrative  engagements  as  albino  lady  in  a 
circus. 

This  time,  however,  her  father  had  taken 
her  with  him  for  company.  The  girl  was 
an  endless  source  of  amusement  to  the  skipper 
231 


Literary  Lapses 


and  the  crew.  She  constantly  got  up  games 
of  puss-in-the-corner,  forfeits,  and  Dumb 
Crambo  with  her  father  and  Mr.  Longfellow, 
and  made  Scripture  puzzles  and  geographical 
acrostics  for  the  men. 

Old  Mr.  Longfellow  was  taking  the  voyage 
to  restore  his  shattered  nerves.  From  the 
first  the  captain  disliked  Henry.  He  was 
utterly  unused  to  the  sea  and  was  nervous 
and  fidgety  in  the  extreme.  He  complained 
that  at  sea  his  genius  had  not  a  sufficient  degree 
of  latitude.  Which  was  unparalleled  presump- 
tion. 

On  the  evening  of  the  storm  there  had  been 
a  little  jar  between  Longfellow  and  the  cap- 
tain at  dinner.  The  captain  had  emptied  it 
several  times,  and  was  consequently  in  a  reck- 
less, quarrelsome  humour. 

"I  confess  I  feel  somewhat  apprehensive," 
said  old  Henry  nervously,  "of  the  state  of 
the  weather.  I  have  had  some  conversation 
about  it  with  an  old  gentleman  on  deck  who 
professed  to  have  sailed  the  Spanish  main. 
He  says  you  ought  to  put  into  yonder 
port."  ' 

"I  have,"  hiccoughed  the  skipper,  eyeing 
the  bottle,  and  added  with  a  brutal  laugh  that 

232 


Half-hours  with  the  Poets 


"he  could  weather  the  roughest  gale  that  ever 
wind  did  blow."  A  whole  Gaelic  society,  he 
said,  wouldn't  fizz  on  him. 

Draining  a  final  glass  of  grog,  he  rose  from 
his  chair,  said  grace,  and  staggered  on 
deck. 

All  the  time  the  wind  blew  colder  and 
louder. 

The  billows  frothed  like  yeast.  It  was  a  yeast 
wind. 

The  evening  wore  on. 

Old  Henry  shuffled  about  the  cabin  in  nervous 
misery. 

The  skipper's  daughter  sat  quietly  at  the 
table  selecting  verses  from  a  Biblical  clock  to 
amuse  the  ship's  bosun,  who  was  suffering  from 
toothache. 

At  about  ten  Longfellow  went  to  his  bunk, 
requesting  the  girl  to  remain  up  in  his 
cabin. 

For  half  an  hour  all  was  quiet,  save  the  roar- 
ing of  the  winter  wind. 

Then  the  girl  heard  the  old  gentleman  start 
up  in  bed. 

"What's  that  bell,  what's  that  bell?"  he 
gasped. 

A  minute  later  he  emerged  from  his  cabin 
23.3 


Literary  Lapses 


wearing  a  cork  jacket  and  trousers  over  his 
pyjamas. 

"Sissy,"  he  said,  "go  up  and  ask  your  pop 
who  rang  that  bell." 

The  obedient  child  returned. 

"Please,  Mr.  Longfellow,"  she  said,  "pa  says 
there  weren't  no  bell." 

The  old  man  sank  into  a  chair  and  remained 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands. 

"Say,"  he  exclaimed  presently,  "some- 
one's firing  guns  and  there's  a  glimmering 
light  somewhere.  You'd  better  go  upstairs 
again." 

Again  the  child  returned. 

"The  crew  are  guessing  at  an  acrostic, 
and  occasionally  they  get  a  glimmering  of 
it." 

Meantime  the  fury  of  the  storm  increased. 

The  skipper  had  the  hatches  battered 
down. 

Presently  Longfellow  put  his  head  out  of  a 
porthole  and  called  out,  "Look  here,  you  may 
not  care,  but  the  cruel  rocks  are  gor- 
ing the  sides  of  this  boat  like  the  horns  of  an 
angry  bull." 

The  brutal  skipper  heaved  the  log  at  him. 
234 


Half-hours  with  the  Poets 


A  knot  in  it  struck  a  plank  and  it  glanced 
off. 

Too  frightened  to  remain  below,  the  poet 
raised  one  of  the  hatches  by  picking  out  the 
cotton  batting  and  made  his  way  on  deck.  He 
crawled  to  the  wheel-house. 

The  skipper  stood  lashed  to  the  helm  all  stiff 
and  stark.  He  bowed  stiffly  to  the  poet.  The 
lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow  on 
his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes.  The  man  was  hope- 
lessly intoxicated. 

All  the  crew  had  disappeared.  When  the 
missile  thrown  by  the  captain  had  glanced  off 
into  the  sea,  they  glanced  after  it  and  were 
lost. 

At  this  moment  the  final  crash  came. 

Something  hit  something.  There  was  an 
awful  click  followed  by  a  peculiar  grating 
sound,  and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  write 
it  (unfortunately),  the  whole  wreck  was 
over. 

As  the  vessel  sank,  Longfellow's  senses  left 
him.  When  he  reopened  his  eyes  he  was  in 
his  own  bed  at  home,  and  the  editor  of  his 
local  paper  was  bending  over  him. 

"You  have  made  a  first-rate  poem  of  it, 
Mr.  Longfellow,"  he  was  saying,  unbending 
235 


Literary  Lapses 


somewhat  as  he  spoke,  "and  I  am  very  happy 
to  give  you  our  cheque  for  a  dollar  and  a  quar- 
ter for  it." 

"Your  kindness  checks  my  utterance,"  mur- 
mured Henry  feebly,  very  feebly. 


236 


A,  B,  and  C 


THE   HUMAN   ELEMENT  IN  MATHEMATICS 


I 


student  of  arithmetic  who  has 
mastered  the  first  four  rules  of  his 
art,  and  successfully  striven  with 
money  sums  and  fractions,  finds 
himself  confronted  by  an  unbroken  expanse  of 
question^  known  as  problems.  These  are 
short  stories  of  adventure  and  industry  with 
the  end  omitted,  and  though  betraying  a  strong 
family  resemblance,  are  not  without  a  certain 
element  of  romance. 

The  characters  in  the  plot  of  a  problem  are 
three  people  called  A,  B,  and  C.  The  form 
of  the  question  is  generally  of  this  sort: 

"A,  B,  and  C  do  a  certain  piece  of  work. 
A  can  do  as  much  work  in  one  hour  as  B  in 
two,  or  C  in  four.     Find  how  long  they  work 
at  it." 
Or  thus: 

"A,  B,  and  C  are  employed  to  dig  a  ditch. 
A  can  dig  as  much  in  one  hour  as  B  can  dig  in 

237 


Literary  Lapses 


two,  and  B  can  dig  twice  as  fast  as  C.  Find 
how  long,  etc.,  etc." 

Or  after  this  wise: 

"A  lays  a  wager  that  he  can  walk  faster  than 
B  or  C.  A  can  walk  half  as  fast  again  as  B, 
and  C  is  only  an  indifferent  walker.  Find  how 
far,  and  so  forth." 

The  occupations  of  A,  B,  and  C  are  many 
and  varied.  In  the  older  arithmetics  they  con- 
tented themselves  with  doing  "a  certain  piece 
of  work."  This  statement  of  the  case,  how- 
ever, was  found  too  sly  and  mysterious,  or  pos- 
sibly lacking  in  romantic  charm.  It  became 
the  fashion  to  define  the  job  more  clearly  and 
to  set  them  at  walking  matches,  ditch-digging, 
regattas,  and  piling  cord  wood.  At  times, 
they  became  commercial  and  entered  into  part- 
nership, having  with  their  old  mystery  a  "cer- 
tain" capital.  Above  all  they  revel  in  motion. 
When  they  tire  of  walking-matches — A  rides 
on  horseback,  or  borrows  a  bicycle  and  com- 
petes with  his  weaker-minded  associates  on 
foot.  Now  they  race  on  locomotives;  now 
they  row;  or  again  they  become  historical  and 
engage  stage-coaches;  or  at  times  they  are 
aquatic  and  swim.  If  their  occupation  is 
actual  work  they  prefer  to  pump  water  into 

238 


A,  B,  and  C 

cisterns,  two  of  which  leak  through  holes  in 
the  bottom  and  one  of  which  is  water-tight. 
A,  of  course,  has  the  good  one;  he  also  takes 
the  bicycle,  and  the  best  locomotive,  and  the 
, right  of  swimming  with  the  current.  What- 
ever they  do  they  put  money  on  it,  being  all 
three  sports.  A  always  wins. 

In  the  early  chapters  of  the  arithmetic,  their 
identity  is  concealed  under  the  names  John, 
William,  and  Henry,  and  they  wrangle  over 
the  division  of  marbles.  In  algebra  they  are 
often  called  X,  Y,  Z.  But  these  are  only  their 
Christian  names,  and  they  are  really  the  same 
people. 

Now  to  one  who  has  followed  the  history 
of  these  men  through  countless  pages  of  prob- 
lems, watched  them  in  their  leisure  hours  dal- 
lying with  cord  wood,  and  seen  their  panting 
sides  heave  in  the  full  frenzy  of  filling  a  cis- 
tern with  a  leak  in  it,  they  become  something 
more  than  mere  symbols.  They  appear  as 
creatures  of  flesh  and  blood,  living  men  with 
their  own  passions,  ambitions,  and  aspirations 
like  the  rest  of  us.  Let  us  view  them  in  turn. 
A  is  a  full-blooded  blustering  fellow,  of  ener- 
getic temperament,  hot-headed  and  strong- 
willed.  It  is  he  who  proposes  everything, 
239 


Literary  Lapses 


challenges  B  to  work,  makes  the  bets,  and 
bends  the  others  to  his  will.  He  is  a  man  of 
great  physical  strength  and  phenomenal  en- 
durance. He,  has  been  known  to  walk  forty- 
eight  hours  at  a  stretch,  and  to  pump  ninety- 
six.  His  life  is  arduous  and  full  of  peril.  A 
mistake  in  the  working  of  a  sum  may  keep  him 
digging  a  fortnight  without  sleep.  A  repeat- 
ing decimal  in  the  answer  might  kill  him. 

B  is  a  quiet,  easy-going  fellow,  afraid  of  A 
and  bullied  by  him,  but  very  gentle  and 
brotherly  to  little  C,  the  weakling.  He  is 
quite  in  A's  power,  having  lost  all  his  money 
in  bets. 

Poor  C  is  an  undersized,  frail  man,  with  a 
plaintive  face.  Constant  walking,  digging,  and 
pumping  has  broken  his  health  and  ruined  his 
nervous  system.  His  joyless  life  has  driven 
him  to  drink  and  smoke  more  than  is  good 
for  him,  and  his  hand  often  shakes  as  he  digs 
ditches.  He  has  not  the  strength  to  work  as 
the  others  can,  in  fact,  as  Hamlin  Smith  has 
said,  "A  can  do  more  work  in  one  hour  than 
C  in  four." 

The  first  time  that  ever  I  saw  these  men 
was  one  evening  after  a  regatta.  They  had 
all  been  rowing  in  it,  and  it  had  transpired 
240 


A,  Bf  and  C 

that  A  could  row  as  much  in  one  hour  as  B  in 
two,  or  C  in  four.  B  and  C  had  come  in  dead 
fagged  and  C  was  coughing  badly.  "Never 
mind,  old  fellow,"  I  heard  B  say,  "I'll  fix  you 
up  on  the  sofa  and  get  you  some  hot  tea." 
Just  then  A  came  blustering  in  and  shouted, 
"I  say,  you  fellows,  Hamlin  Smith  has  shown 
me  three  cisterns  in  his  garden  and  he  says 
we  can  pump  them  until  to-morrow  night.  I 
bet  I  can  beat  you  both.  Come  on.  You  can 
pump  in  your  rowing  things,  you  know.  Your 
cistern  leaks  a  little,  I  think,  C."  I  heard  B 
growl  that  it  was  a  dirty  shame  and  that  C  was 
used  up  now,  but  they  went,  and  presently  I 
could  tell  from  the  sound  of  the  water  that  A 
was  pumping  four  times  as  fast  as  C. 

For  years  after  that  I  used  to  see  them  con- 
stantly about  town  and  always  busy.  I  never 
heard  of  any  of  them  eating  or  sleeping.  Then 
owing  to  a  long  absence  from  home,  I  lost 
sight  of  them.  On  my  return  I  was  surprised 
to  no  longer  find  A,  B,  and  C  at  their  accus- 
tomed tasks;  on  inquiry  I  heard  that  work  in 
this  line  was  now  done  by  N,  M,  and  O,  and 
that  some  people  were  employing  for  algebrai- 
cal jobs  four  foreigners  called  Alpha,  Beta, 
Gamma,  and  Delta. 

241 


Literary  Lapses 


Now  it  chanced  one  day  that  I  stumbled 
upon  old  D,  in  the  little  garden  in  front  of  his 
cottage,  hoeing  in  the  sun.  D  is  an  aged  la- 
bouring man  who  used  occasionally  to  be  called 
in  to  help  A,  B,  and  G.  "Did  I  know  'em, 
sir?"  he  answered,  "why,  I  knowed  'em  ever 
since  they  was  little  fellows  in  brackets.  Mas- 
ter A,  he  were  a  fine  lad,  sir,  though  I  always 
said,  give  me  Master  B  for  kind-heartedness- 
like.  Many's  the  job  as  we've  been  on  to- 
gether, sir,  though  I  never  did  no  racing  nor 
aught  of  that,  but  just  the  plain  labour,  as  you 
might  say.  I'm  getting  a  bit  too  old  and  stiff 
for  it  nowadays,  sir — just  scratch  about  in  the 
garden  here  and  grow  a  bit  of  a  logarithm, 
or  raise  a  common  denominator  or  two.  But 
Mr.  Euclid  he  use  me  still  for  them  proposi- 
tions, he  do." 

From  the  garrulous  old  man  I  learned  the 
melancholy  end  of  my  former  acquaintances. 
Soon  after  I  left  town,  he  told  me,  C  had  been 
taken  ill.  It  seems  that  A  and  B  had  been 
rowing  on  the  river  for  a  wager,  and  C  had 
been  running  on  the  bank  and  then  sat  in  a 
draught.  Of  course  the  bank  had  refused  the 
draught  and  C  was  taken  ill.  A  and  B  came 
home  and  found  C  lying  helpless  in  bed.  A 

242 


A,  Bt  and  C 

shook  him  roughly  and  said,  "Get  up,  C,  we're 
going  to  pile  wood."  C  looked  so  worn  and 
pitiful  that  B  said,  "Look  here,  A,  I  won't 
stand  this,  he  isn't  fit  to  pile  wood  to-night." 
C  smiled  feebly  and  said,  "Perhaps  I  might 
pile  a  little  if  I  sat  up  in  bed."  Then  B, 
thoroughly  alarmed,  said,  "See  here,  A,  I'm 
going  to  fetch  a  doctor;  he's  dying."  A 
flared  up  and  answered,  "You've  no  money 
to  fetch  a  doctor."  "I'll  reduce  him  to  his 
lowest  terms,"  B  said  firmly,  "that'll  fetch 
him."  C's  life  might  even  then  have  been 
saved  but  they  made  a  mistake  about  the  med- 
icine. It  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed  on  a 
bracket,  and  the  nurse  accidentally  removed 
it  from  the  bracket  without  changing  the  sign. 
After  the  fatal  blunder  C  seems  to  have  sunk 
rapidly.  On  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  as 
the  shadows  deepened  in  the  little  room,  it  was 
clear  to  all  that  the  end  was  near.  I  think 
that  even  A  was  affected  at  the  last  as  he  stood 
with  bowed  head,  aimlessly  offering  to  bet 
with  the  doctor  on  C's  laboured  breathing. 
"A,"  whispered  C,  "I  think  I'm  going  fast." 
"How  fast  do  you  think  you'll  go,  old  man?" 
murmured  A.  "I  don't  know,"  said  C,  "but 
I'm  going  at  any  rate." — The  end  came  soon 
243  » 


Literary  Lapses 


after  that.  C  rallied  for  a  moment  and  asked 
for  a  certain  piece  of  work  that  he  had  left 
downstairs.  A  put  it  in  his  arms  and  he  ex- 
pired. As  his  soul  sped  heavenward  A 
watched  its  flight  with  melancholy  admiration. 
B  burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears  and 
sobbed,  "Put  away  his  little  cistern  and  the 
rowing  clothes  he  used  to  wear,  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  hardly  ever  dig  again." — The  funeral 
was  plain  and  unostentatious.  It  differed  in 
nothing  from  the  ordinary,  except  that  out  of 
deference  to  sporting  men  and  mathematicians, 
A  engaged  two  hearses.  Both  vehicles  started 
at  the  same  time,  B  driving  the  one  which  bore 
the  sable  parallelepiped  containing  the  last 
remains  of  his  ill-fated  friend.  A  on  the  box 
of  the  empty  hearse  generously  consented  to  a 
handicap  of  a  hundred  yards,  but  arrived  first 
at  the  cemetery  by  driving  four  times  as  fast 
as  B.  (Find  the  distance  to  the  cemetery.)  As 
the  sarcophagus  was  lowered,  the  grave  was 
surrounded  by  the  broken  figures  of  the  first 
book  of  Euclid. — It  was  noticed  that  after  the 
death  of  C,  A  became  a  changed  man.  He 
lost  interest  in  racing  with  B,  and  dug  but  lan- 
guidly. He  finally  gave  up  his  work  and  set- 
tled down  to  live  on  the  interest  of  his  bets. 

244 


A,  B,  and  C 

— B  never  recovered  from  the  shock  of  C's 
death;  his  grief  preyed  upon  his  intellect  and 
it  became  deranged.  He  grew  moody  and 
spoke  only  in  monosyllables.  His  disease  be- 
came rapidly  aggravated,  and  he  presently 
spoke  only  in  words  whose  spelling  was  regu- 
lar and  which  presented  no  difficulty  to  the  be- 
ginner. Realising  his  precarious  condition  he 
voluntarily  submitted  to  be  incarcerated  in  an 
asylum,  where  he  abjured  mathematics  and  de- 
voted himself  to  writing  the  History  of  the 
Swiss  Family  Robinson  in  words  of  one 
syllable. 


245 


A  cknowledgments 


MANY  of  the  sketches  which  form 
the  present  volume  have  already 
appeared  in  ,  print.  Others  of 
them  are  new.  Of  the  re- 
printed pieces,  "Melpomenus  Jones,"  "Police- 
man Hogan,"  "A  Lesson  in  Fiction,"  and 
many  others  were  contributions  by  the  author 
to  the  New  York  Truth.  The  "Boarding- 
House  Geometry"  first  appeared  in  Truth,  and 
was  subsequently  republished  in  the  London 
Punch,  and  in  a  great  many  other  journals. 
The  sketches  called  the  "Life  of  John  Smith," 
"Society  Chit-Chat,"  and  "Aristocratic  Educa- 
tion" appeared  in  Puck.  "The  New  Pathol- 
ogy" was  first  printed  in  the  Toronto  Saturday 
Night,  and  was  subsequently  republished  by  the 
London  Lancet,  and  by  various  German  pe- 
riodicals in  the  form  of  a  translation.  The 
story  called  "Number  Fifty-Six"  is  taken  from 
the  Detroit  Free  Press.  "My  Financial  Ca- 
reer" was  originally  contributed  to  the  New 
York  Life,  and  has  been  frequently  reprinted. 
247 


A  cknowledgments 


The  articles  "How  to  Make  a  Million  Dol- 
lars" and  "How  to  Avoid  Getting  Married," 
etc.,  are  reproduced  by  permission  of  the  Pub- 
lishers' Press  Syndicate.  The  wide  circula- 
tion which  some  of  the  above  sketches  have 
enjoyed  has  encouraged  the  author  to  prepare 
the  present  collection. 

The  author  desires  to  express  his  sense  of 
obligation  to  the  proprietors  of  the  above  jour- 
nals who  have  kindly  permitted  him  to  repub- 
lish  the  contributions  which  appeared  in  their 
columns. 


248 


University  of  California 

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405  Hilgard  Avenue,  La*  AngelesvCA  90024-1388 

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